


Untouched

by Angela



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/pseuds/Angela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éowyn has always believed that, one day, she would marry her cousin and become queen of Rohan. Then Saruman destroys that dream, and she finds she has a new path to tread. A path that takes her through grief and infatuation and battle before it finally leads her to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly book-verse, though I took a few lovelies from the movies to fatten it up. And while it's definitely Éowyn/Faramir, she has a long way to go before she even meets him. So please be patient. ^_^
> 
> **Changes have been made! As of 8/19/14, there is a new version of chapter one posted. Not much has changed, just tiny details that affect continuity.

The sun had not yet risen but the sky was already the deep sapphire that came just before dawn. She was late. The Rohirrim were already gathering in the yard, loud and excited. The voices of men made a low, rumbling background over which Éowyn could hear the _clang_ of steel being tested and the heavy hoof stamps of restless horses. She looked around as she passed through, but it seemed her cousin was not among them. He must yet be preparing Windfola. Éowyn wrapped her cloak more securely about her shoulders and hurried toward the stables, the frost-crusted grass crunching beneath her boots.

She was dressed to ride: breeches and a wool tunic, her hair tied back with a plain leather band. Her armor was stashed in the tack cabinet in Hoarfrost's stall, close at hand for when Théodred gave in and let her go to war with him. She knew she would have to prepare quickly, giving him no reason to regret his choice.

The stable doors were open, the place alive with activity. Horses whinnied and stamped, as eager as their riders to be heading out to battle. The air smelled of horses and the smoky oil of the lanterns that hung on the walls. Éowyn's own horse stretched his neck as she passed, nickering softly. Éowyn paused briefly before his stall, unable to ignore him. She rubbed her hand over the horse's velvety nose. “Be patient, Hoarfrost. If all goes well, we shall go, too.” 

Windfola's stall was in the back, next to where Snowmane grew fat and impatient for his master to return to him. She slipped in to visit her uncle's horse first, fishing a wrinkled apple from her pocket. She always brought him treats these days. He was cared for and exercised while the king was ill – no horse was neglected or mistreated in Rohan – but she knew it wasn't the same as seeing his beloved Théoden again.

The beautiful white horse took the apple from her palm. He crunched softly as she stroked his neck. “I miss him, too,” she murmured close to the animal's ear. 

Her uncle, as dear as a father to her, had not been himself in what seemed to her a very long time, though she could not pinpoint just when the decline had begun. Three years ago at least, probably earlier. He was not a young man – threescore and ten his last name day – but still so alive and vibrant in her memories that she could not reconcile them with the paper-skinned shadow he had become.

“You are a mighty warrior,” she whispered in Snowmane's ear. “You will see battle again, one day.” It was something that the Riders said to soothe their mounts during the dull, wistful days of peace. The horses of Rohan were fighters in their own right; it was something the whole country took pride in. Nowhere else in Arda were there horses such as these, horses who ran eagerly into battle, horses who knew when to swerve and jump and trample, protecting their riders to the ends of their lives, if need be. “You are the mightiest of all our horses.” She might have said more, but her cousin's voice in the next stall distracted her. She peeked through the slats and was surprised to see her brother's back only inches away.

“No, Éomer,” Théodred was saying, his expression troubled as he layered a mask of bronze scale mail over Windfola's sweet grey face. “We discussed this last night.”

“If we are indeed at war with Saruman, then my place is by your side, cousin!” Éowyn couldn't see her brother's face, but his voice was passionate, his movements agitated. He wore his mail, the bright horse-tail of his helm bobbing furiously from its place beneath his arm.

“I asked you to come back to Edoras because I need you here,” Théodred told her brother firmly. 

“You need my sword!” the young man countered furiously.

Théodred glanced around, trying to be certain they were not overheard. He gripped Éomer's arm, pulling him close. “In truth, I do,” he said in a low voice. It seemed to Éowyn that it pained him to admit it. “Saruman is wiley and sharp. I suspect a trap.”

Éowyn's gasp of surprise was masked by Éomer's own intake of breath. “Then allow me to come,” he pleaded earnestly.

Théodred dropped his arm and stepped back, shaking his head wearily. “I am not your king,” he conceded. “You have taken no oath to obey me. But, Éomer,” his voice became urgent, “as your cousin, I ask you. As your friend. For all that lies between us, do this for me. Keep watch over matters here.”

It was true that Théodred was not their king, and no oaths had been sworn to him, but Éowyn knew that Éomer was bound to him just the same. With King Théoden ill and unable to command, the Riders of the Mark followed his son in his his place. A king in all but name. For a long moment, silence stretched between the two men, so alike in both face and bearing, and even the noise of the army preparing seemed to fall into the background. Éowyn found herself holding her breath, waiting for her brother's answer.

Then Éomer's head bowed. For a moment he looked formal and respectful, but Éowyn knew him too well. In the the slump of his shoulders, she read defeat; in the long shudder of a sigh, she heard petulance. “You are my prince,” her brother said at last, his words gracious even as his tone sounded hollow. “I will, of course, do as you bid me.”

Windfola snorted and stamped her foot, as though trying to remind the men that there were more pressing matters at hand. Théodred ran a hand over her silky neck, making soothing noises beneath his breath. “Keep two eyes on Gríma,” he told Éomer urgently. “Without me, there is none but you who will stand between him and Éowyn.”

Éowyn's eyes widened and she had to stifle a noise of surprise. 

When Éomer spoke, his voice was hard. “I too, have seen how he watches her,” he said. “And I like it no more than you. But I am comforted: she is twice the warrior he is.”

Their cousin nodded. “Éowyn is as fine a fighter as many men here,” he agreed in a low voice, “but surely you've seen how the worm's tongue does its work. He talks a slippery path, leading men – even strong and powerful men – into his darkness. What damage he could do to an innocent girl like your sister, I have no wish to find out.”

Éowyn did not know how to feel, hearing them speak of her. It was true that Gríma had seemed always nearby lately, skulking in shadows and watching from doorways. She was glad that Théodred had taken note, that he was not entirely blind to her. On the other hand, she did not appreciate being watched over like a babe in the nursery.

“He has your father's ear,” Éomer said.

“Which is why you must never leave them alone,” Théodred told him. “I fear that warning Éowyn would only make her careless, and threatening Gríma will send him, whispering, to my father's side.”

Careless? Gríma was no fighter; Éowyn saw no reason to be afraid of him. Let him look. Let him linger. He dared not come close. She would cut down any man who tried to touch her without consent, and the men of the Mark knew it. 

“Surely you see that the only real protection for her is marriage,” Éomer said casually, reaching down to secure a guard around Windfola's front leg.

Théodred froze, and Éowyn rocked forward onto her toes, eager to see his reaction. There had never been any formal discussions linking him to her, but for all Éowyn's life, it had seemed only a matter of time. She had believed for as long as she could remember that they were simply waiting until her coming of age to be formally betrothed. But then, when she had finally reached her twentieth name day, her uncle had been ill for months and Saruman was already nipping at their borders – so weeks went by with no mention of a betrothal, no hint of a union. And then months. And now years.

It was true that Théodred had done nothing specifically to encourage such ideas, but he had never opposed them, either. Chiefly, he had never sought a connection elsewhere, though as heir to the kingdom he had responsibility of raising a family. And he was always good to Éowyn, as kind and affectionate as any woman would want in a husband. Warmth spread through her as she watched him, wondering exactly what thoughts were in his head. 

“There is no time for that,” Théodred said shortly.

“Perhaps not,” Éomer conceded. “But a strong husband will do more to deflect Gríma's ambitions than aught else.” The men shared a long look, and Éowyn could not decipher what was said in that unspoken communication.

Then Théodred turned. “I fear it is not ambition that moves him,” he said, his voice quiet and muffled. “Éowyn has become a beautiful woman.”

Her brother barked a derisive laugh. “You think he would risk his place for desire?” he scoffed.

Turning back to study him for a long moment, Théodred smiled grimly. “You are still a child, my cousin,” he said. “The madness of desire has driven men to that and worse. Clearly, you have not yet met the right woman.”

Éowyn watched her brother shake his head, imagined the eye roll that accompanied it. “You must be right, for I care more for females on four legs than for those on two,” he said, running his hand affectionately down Windfola's flank. She nickered softly at the touch. “But I will do as you bid me. I will keep that Wormtongue far from my sister.”

Éowyn's heart pounded as the two men embraced and said their farewells. Éomer took leave of his cousin, striding back toward Meduseld, probably to find her. But she was affixed to the spot. _Éowyn has become a beautiful woman,_ Théodred had said. And he spoke of desire, of madness. Certainly this must mean something. A giddy sort of joy came over her and she suddenly didn't care that she wasn't going away to war. There was no way she could ask him to take her now, not without looking just as petulant as Éomer.

She pulled the leather wrap from her hair and let it flow, unbound, across her shoulders. She combed it hastily with her fingers. With a farewell pat for Snowmane, she slipped from his stall.

Théodred was leading Windfola out when he noticed her. “Éowyn,” he said, surprised. “I thought you would be sleeping yet.”

She shook her head. “I would not let you ride to battle without a proper farewell,” she told him.

He smiled softly and cupped her head in his hand. “And it does my heart glad,” he told her. He let his fingers trail down her silken hair before lifting it away. “You should always wear your hair loose,” he said fondly. He had told her before, but she never tired of it. “It softens you.”

“And I have need of softening,” she finished. This, too, had been said before.

For a long moment he studied her. “No,” he said at last. “Perhaps it was true in years past, but at this moment, I think you are perfect.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He was so much older than she; she had waited so long for him to notice she was no longer the skinny tomboy who followed doggedly at his heels. She wished for a witty rejoinder. She wished for any words at all, but none came. 

Instead she pulled a beaten copper cuff from her arm – it had been her father's, and it was dear to her. She slid it over his shield hand and onto his wrist. It was sentimental and old fashioned to give a token before battle, but the light in her cousin's eyes showed her that he did not mind.

He stepped close to her, dropping Windfola's lead to put his hands on her shoulders. “Have a care, Éowyn,” Théodred told her in a low, husky voice. “It would pain me to learn that anything should happen to you while I am away.”

“What could happen?” she asked, mesmerized by his blue eyes and his lips behind his close-cropped beard. “I will be safe at home. It is you who are riding into danger.”

He sighed and leaned close, pressing those lips against her forehead. His kiss was warm and firm, comforting. Éowyn found herself softening further, as though some deep, rigid part of her were coming undone. 

“Be well, my little cousin,” he told her as he pulled away. “And watch over our king in my place. I will fight fiercely to return home to you all.” Éowyn leaned against Windfola's stall and watched as Théodred and his lovely grey mare walked away.

#####

She was seven years old the day she'd first met Théodred. She was small and scared, clutching her brother's hand and keeping a step behind him as they climbed the dozens of stairs up to Meduseld, where their uncle, the king, lived. Their mother had been buried only days before, their father a week before that. Éomer's hand was slick and clammy, but she clung to it, terrified that he would have to leave her, too.

Beyond the imposing guards, the king's hall was long and wide and dark. As Éowyn's eyes adjusted, she saw the lofty roof and the sweeping beams that held it in place. Horses were carved on pillars and were embroidered into banners that hung, two by two, along the long, paved hall that led the king's pavilion. 

A man sat there, on a seat that looked more like a fancy chair than the grand throne she had imagined. He was old and starting to grey, but his eyes shone brightly, so much like her mother's that Éowyn felt a tightness in her throat.

“Don't cry,” Éomer hissed at her, his fingers curling like a steel trap around her hand.

The old man rose from his seat, came down the three steps from his dais, and for a moment stood before them. He looked at them for a long moment, and Éowyn found she had no idea what he was thinking as he studied them. Would he send them away? They had already come so far.

Then the king knelt and reached for her hands. Shaking, she disentangled her fingers from her brother's and let her uncle grasp them. His hands were warm and softer than they looked. “You must be Éowyn,” he said softly, smiling into her eyes. “You look just as your mother did, when she was a little girl.”

Éowyn had never thought of her mother as a little girl, but of course she must have been, once. And her uncle said that she looked like her. She felt the ice inside her melt just a bit. 

Éomer introduced himself then, and the king smiled some more. There was sadness in his face, but the smile looked genuine to Éowyn's eyes. 

“I am glad you have come to live with me,” he told them. “I have long wished to know you both, and Meduseld needs the laughter of children once more. My own son is grown up and hardly any fun at all.” He motioned to a man Éowyn had not noticed, a young man with long, shining hair who stood next to the dais, watching with kind blue eyes.

This man was her cousin then. Éowyn had known that she had one – some older cousin who had already done noteworthy things with sword and lance – but she had not known that he was pleasant to look at, or that he smiled like his father. 

Or that he, too, had lost his mother. He told her this later, while they were eating dinner. Éomer was sitting next to their uncle, relating the tale of their long journey to Edoras and trying – Éowyn could always tell – to sound older than just eleven. Théodred sat next to her, letting her quietly pick at her food and not troubling her with questions she wasn't eager to answer.

She was surprised, then, when he leaned close. Close enough to whisper. “My mother died when I was a baby,” he told her softly. “I didn't know her, but I miss her just the same.”

Éowyn hadn't realized that a grown man would ever miss his mother. Did that mean that she would never recover from this pain in her heart? Would her belly always clench and hurt when she thought of her parents? She looked up at him, at first ashamed of the tears that stood in her eyes, but, seeing his gentle expression, not ashamed at all.

He squeezed her shoulder. “Anything you need, little cousin,” he told her. “Anything at all, I promise, I will do it for you.”

She nodded, unable to speak without crying. Instead she took a mouthful of bread and chewed. She would not forget his kindness. Or his promise.

#####

The days that followed the riding of the Rohirrim were strange and long. Éomer prowled the hall, unable for long to fix his attention on any one task or duty. He was snappish and cross, miserable in being left behind and yet too loyal to Théodred to return to his home in Aldburg. Éowyn, too, was restless, though she had much to keep herself occupied – the household of Meduseld was her responsibility, and feeding the cavalry on such short notice had left the kitchens in turmoil. She spent her time finding ways to stretch their winter supplies to last through a war. The previous growing season had been good and the harvests plentiful, but a standing army ate more food than Éowyn could easily comprehend. An army on the move consumed even more – marching and fighting was hungry work, after all. And it was not yet even March; the Riddermark was still hard, cold, and unplanted.

Though she would rather have been on the battlefield herself, Éowyn did not truly mind this work. Numbers had always come easily to her, and it took her only a short time to work out how much food would be needed before the spring's vegetable plots could supplement their stores. She recorded it all in the leather-bound household accounting book that had been entrusted to her on her twentieth name day. She recorded her sums carefully, as had the bookkeepers who came before her. It would not do to have mistakes marring the parchment pages.

“And have you accounted for our losses?” came a voice from the doorway.

Éowyn turned. Gríma stood a few feet into the kitchen, craning his neck to read the numbers she'd just written in the book. She stepped back, allowing him access to her work. He was her uncle's chief adviser; she had no right to deny him the records. He crossed the large kitchen in just a few strides, and she was struck by his height and demeanor. He was of an age with Théodred, but thinner and greyer, looking more like a bard than a warrior. He glanced down at the pages of numbers before her and shook his head.

“Our losses?” she asked. She had taken rot into account, if that was what he meant. And bugs and mice and anything else that could turn good food rancid. It was simple kitchen wisdom to realize that not everything stored away would pass the winter unscathed.

“Our army's losses,” he explained. His voice was smooth and soft. Almost gentle, she thought, though she had never used that word in relation to Gríma before. “After each battle, we will have fewer Riders to feed.”

She had not considered that. She did not want to. Those men were her kin and her friends – the people of the Mark that she had grown up with. Éowyn instinctively took a step back from the table, for a moment physically unwilling to coldly account for the loss of life in a rations chart. “It matters not,” she protested. “So long as there is enough food, I should not have to – ” 

He _tsked_ softly, the sound making her small and foolish. “A successful household strives to accuracy,” he reminded her. “A successful kingdom demands it.”

“I will not plan for our men to die,” she told him coldly.

“But they will,” Gríma insisted. He seemed not able to be still, fidgeting and stepping as his long finger traced her entries in the book. “Your cousin is a fine general,” he told her, “but we do not know what he might face. He may lose many men this day. He may lose his own life.”

A chill ran through her. It was possible – of course it was possible – but speaking it aloud was an ill omen. Just thinking it was bad enough. “Get out of here,” she told him quietly. “Leave me at once.”

Gríma looked hard into her face, his dark eyes unblinking like glass beads. “The might of Rohan is not what it once was,” he said softly. “A true queen would not fear facing this fact.” He moved his hand up, as though to touch her.

Éowyn jerked away. “There is no queen of the Riddermark,” she told him, her voice hard.

The man's eyes narrowed. “Ah, but you would will it,” he said. “I know your heart, Lady Éowyn. I've seen you hunger for power.”

She thought of her sick and desolate uncle. Of her handsome cousin. It was true that she wanted to be queen. She wanted to be Théodred's wife, to help him bring Rohan back to its ancient glory. She dreamed of standing beside him as the horse lords swore fealty, the banners of Edoras waving above them, stitched of gold thread as they were in days of old. 

“I seek no power for myself,” she insisted, tripping over her words. “Only for Rohan.”

Gríma smiled. It was sickly and insincere. “Of course,” he said, his voice gentled once more. “For Rohan.” He turned abruptly, his robe swirling, and left her alone.

Éowyn put her hand to her throat, feeling her pulse hammering there. She glanced at the columns of numbers in the log book. They looked wrong to her now, inaccurate and naïve. But she would not change them. 

The clatter of horse's hooves and the cries of men's voices pulled her from her dark thoughts. But it was too soon for the army to have returned. A messenger, then. From Théodred? Her heart skipped.

She hurried from the kitchen. Already there were voices from the hall. Éowyn squeezed her hands together, willing the news to be good. 

“I am Third Marshal of the Riddermark! It is my duty!” Éomer's voice. He no longer sounded petulant or childish. If anything, her brother at last sounded like a man grown. A warrior. “If I do not clear our eastern lands of this scourge, then who will?” 

She slipped into the hall through a door behind the king's dais. No one seemed to notice her. Gríma was there already, in his usual place at Théoden's elbow. He was murmuring low into her uncle's ear.

The king leaned toward his nephew, his weight on the cane that ever he bore. “And who, then, will protect Meduseld? Edoras? My son has gone to battle; Elfhelm has taken four companies to follow him. Would you steal the remaining men from the heart of the kingdom so that you can hew down a few orcs? Has the pride of the House of Eorl come to this?”

Éomer's face went stormy with frustration. “It is not pride which moves me, Uncle!” he cried. “Nor is it only a few orcs. There are many farms and villages on the east marches, many families in peril if we do not stop this army.”

Théoden moved to speak, but seemed to think better of it as Gríma shifted in his spot. “He seeks glory,” he told his king, pretending that his voice was not pitched to carry. “He is jealous of the prince, angry that he was not chosen to ride west with him.”

Her uncle looked sharply at nephew as though trying to discern his motive. His eyes were cloudy with sickness, but it seemed to Éowyn that lately he saw whatever Gríma wished him to.

Éomer protested. “I seek only the safety of our people!” he insisted. “If the Eastemnet falls, then what hope have we against Saruman?”

“ _'Our people,'_ he says,” Gríma hissed, this time so that her brother did not hear. “He seeks to usurp your son, my liege.” 

Théoden blinked, but said nothing.

A sharp stab of outrage coursed through Éowyn. Her brother had never been anything but loyal and true to his family. To his king. Why did her uncle not see that? She wanted to say so, to show him reason, to make him see. But how? It had been long months since she was last able to persuade him to see anything.

Before she could think of anything to say, Éomer shook his head. “I must go, Uncle,” he said softly, his tone resolute. He dropped to one knee before the dais. “In your name, my éored will rid the Riddermark of these orcs.” He stood and looked sadly at the king. “I only hope you are enough yourself to forgive me when I return.”

Only then did he notice Éowyn hovering behind the throne. In three long strides he was before her, his head bowed close to hers. “Keep clear of Wormtongue,” he urged in a quiet voice. “I will be back in just a few days, but you must not let him near you.”

She raised her chin proudly. She would show him that she was no child to be fretted over. “Do not waste your concern on me, brother,” she told him. “Ride hard. May the wind be always at your back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is affecting Edoras, and Eowyn is the only one able to manage its complications. Then, when bad news comes to Meduseld, she has no one to turn to for comfort; Grima recognizes the opportunity and seizes it.
> 
> *If you've a mind to, check out chapter one again. Minor changes have been made for the sake of mood and continuity.
> 
> **A bit of a warning here: Grima is manipulative and creepy. It could make people pretty uncomfortable, so consider yourself warned.

Refugees poured into Edoras. They came from all over – from the Wold came victims of orc attacks, then came those from the Westfold, fleeing Dunlendings who raided or burned their farms and villages. Even from the relatively peaceful north, the poor and displaced came seeking the king's mercy. War was no longer merely a threat to the people of Rohan – it was bracingly upon them. 

For the next few days, refugees occupied all of Éowyn's time and most of her thoughts. She helped organize tent villages within the safely of Edoras's walls, and then – when there was room for no more and yet desperate people arrived every hour – outside them. She found food and fresh water and fuel for fires, and still there were those left hungry and cold. Her head ached from the smell of sickness, her ears rang with the constant cries of infants and children, and she longed more than ever to be on the battlefield, facing the enemy with a sharp sword and a fierce heart. Instead, she doled out rations of water from an ever-heavier bucket and tried to reassure with a smile.

But it was hard to parcel out hope when she felt none herself.

Éomer and his éored left Edoras the same night he had argued with Théoden. When they departed at midnight, the truth of the situation was clear to all – though the king had said no more against the Rohirrim riding out against the orcs, not a single rider believed that they had Théoden's blessing. There were murmurings about possible punishments, but Éowyn heard none go so far as to call her brother's decision treason. And they all went. They believed in Éomer and would follow him, even to the king's disapproval. 

Éowyn had watched them go from the steps of Meduseld, a blanket wrapped snugly around her shoulders. It took just moments for the company to leave the torchlight of Edoras's high walls behind them, and for long minutes they were no more than a cluster of hoof beats and a smudge across the dark plain. After that, they were gone, and she stared, bereft, northward into the night. Already, the place felt strange and vacant without her brother and his men. Never before had there been so few soldiers about.

She glanced across the horizon in a slow circle, but the darkness blurred its edge and kept secrets. Edoras had been built with defense in mind, high above the plain and with such unblocked vistas that no enemy could approach unnoticed. But the nighttime shrouded much of their advantage. Her uncle was wise to worry about leaving the city unprotected. But Éomer was no prideful upstart. He would not have left if the danger had not been grave.

Háma remained, and the rest of the King's Guard. They were some of the fiercest, most resourceful warriors in Rohan, but they numbered fewer than two hundred. And the refugees had brought horrific stories with them. Some spoke of human brutality – of burning farms and screaming livestock. Others had darker tales to tell – of orcs who gutted children and left them to die on the thresholds of their own homes, of people forced to march for days without food or drink until they collapsed to be trampled beneath the feet of their companions and captors alike. And there were some who spoke not at all, which disturbed Éowyn even more.

There was news of a battle at the Fords of Isen – undoubtedly the very same that Théodred had ridden off to, days before. Some said that her cousin had fallen. Others said that Saruman's orcs had been routed, that the prince was returning victorious. It had been a strange battle, by all accounts, second- and third-hand though they were, and Éowyn remembered the concern Théodred had shared with her brother that last day in the stable. _I suspect a trap._

At night, her dreams tossed with dark images; battle and war and such coldness. It did not surprise her to wake each morning to storm-grey skies and a constant drizzle of bitter rain. She imagined her brother huddled about a guttering campfire with his men, and found herself hoping – miserable though it was – that her cousin was, right then, headed home upon his rain-slicked horse, squinting as the icy raindrops fell hard on his face. 

She wondered at the lack of official news, and spent evenings working near her uncle, the two of them united in that preoccupation, at least. He had heard the rumors of battle, too. She was in the great hall, twisting the plains grasses into logs for refugee campfires, when at last they heard the splashing _thud_ of hoof-beats on the muddy earth outside. Only a few riders, perhaps a dozen. And fainter – audible only because it was twilight and much of the bustle of Edoras had ceased for the evening meal – she heard the creaking of a cart. It was a messenger then, not an éored returning. But the cart; Éowyn was troubled.

King Théoden glanced her way, silently acknowledging their shared anxiety. Éowyn's heart lurched and she found that she almost could not bear the idea of knowing, if the news were bad. Only half-aware, she stood as the great doors opened.

The figure who entered wore the green that marked him a rider from Théodred's éored. His helm was in his hands and though his face was in shadow, as he approached Éowyn recognized him as Hrodgar, son of Héreward. He was Théodred's most trusted rider.

It seemed to take him years to reach the king's dais, and yet Éowyn was still not prepared when he knelt, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his grey-streaked hair. “My lord.” His murmur was leaden, and Éowyn realized what she should have known the instant he passed through the doors.

“Hrodgar.” Éowyn did not know where her uncle had found the strength to speak, for surely he knew as well as she, and a painful clawing inside had stolen her voice and will. He rose from his throne and, though he was an old man and brittle, he knelt beside the stooped warrior. “Tell me,” the king urged softly. “Tell me of my son.”

For a long moment, Hrodgar looked solemnly at his king. “He is outside,” he said at last. “I have brought him home.”

A cry escaped Éowyn's lips before she could help it, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. For an instant she had felt such elation, such glee. Her uncle, too, seemed to have felt it; his whole body jolted, his eyes moving sharply to the doors. 

But there was that look on Hrodgar's face, as though he might be sick. Éowyn saw at once how wrong they had been. Beside her, Théoden apparently came to the same conclusion: a sound escaped him – something between a cry and a moan, and for a moment he let his head fall into his hand. 

Éowyn's heart broke.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Hrodgar breathed, his voice trembling. “I thought you already knew. An earlier messenger was sent.”

Behind them, Gríma hissed. He stepped past Éowyn, looking as though he might argue with Hrodgar, but he glanced at the king instead, his eyes narrow. He kept his silence, though she could see it pained him.

Théoden reached up, put his hands on either side of the Rider's face. “Tell me how it happened, my boy,” he urged softly, no more a king, but a father. “Tell me about my Théodred.”

For a long moment the man seemed unable to speak, and when at last he answered, his voice was all gravel and sorrow. He spoke of a battle: of Dunlendings and Uruks and Wolfriders, of Saruman's treachery, and of a horn blast in the darkening night. He described Théodred's last stand on a tiny island in the midst of the icy Isen, and the general Grimbold's fierce defense that came too late. 

Éowyn felt the dim hall growing darker as each word left Hrodgar's lips. Her uncle, still on one knee, seemed to be bowing even more beneath the weight of his story. She wanted to go to him but was rooted in place, unable to do more than breathe.

“At his last, he thought of you, my lord,” the warrior said gently. “'Bid my father to put his trust in Éomer,' he told me. Beyond that, he could speak no further.” Hrodgar fell silent, his eyes falling from Théoden's face to the floor at his feet. 

In the void of all that the messenger did not say, Éowyn had the cold realization that her cousin's death could not have been an easy one, that orcs do not kill cleanly. Pressure in her throat made her believe she might be sick, but nothing came – instead she was left with a knot of pain that seemed unable to dissipate.

She stepped toward her uncle, reaching, she thought, to comfort him. The old man pushed her hand from his shoulder, staggering to his feet and clutching at his staff. “Leave me,” he said, shrugging away her help, Hrodgar's help. “Leave me.” Louder this time, waving a dismissive hand to the entire hall.

The room emptied at once. Hrodgar met Éowyn's eyes as he took his leave. He was grieved, she saw, but she recognized some other worry in his look. For an instant she thought he had seen her desolation and sought to ease it, but then he spoke. “My lady,” he asked in a low voice. “Is your brother near?”

Éomer. By all that was sacred, she had forgotten Éomer. 

She shook her head, mutely. 

Her brother and Théodred had been close – particularly these past years as Éomer proved to be his equal on horse and battlefield. He must be told. But how could she tell this man where he had gone without upsetting the king further? She shook her head again, and to her relief, it seemed he understood. He bowed his head toward his king and left.

When they were alone, she turned to Théoden. He did not look at her. 

“Uncle.” Her voice, rediscovered, was broken. She reached again for him, for this man who had been a father to her. She sought, as before, to comfort him, but realized this time that she, too, needed the solace of shared grief. 

But the old man shook his head and she froze, inches away from touching him. “Not now, Éowyn,” he said, tired. He slumped into his throne. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Leave me.”

Éowyn, who had felt so hopeless trying to manage the influx of refugees all week, was suddenly aware that she had been wrong; there had been hope in her, even then. It was only now, dismissed by her king, her brother far from home, and her cousin – in her heart so much more than merely a cousin! – dead, that she was truly bereft.

#####

It was Gríma's cynical observation about the food stores that made it possible for Éowyn to feed even a fraction of the refugees on their doorstep. She hated assuming death where there might be none, but she worked the numbers nonetheless. There were hungry people right there – it would be foolish and cruel to let them starve just to keep surplus for those who would, by the averages, never return.

She had just given out the last of the morning's bread when Hrodgar found her. He led his horse, a beautiful roan mare, to the spring for a drink, pausing only for a deep swallow himself before turning to Éowyn. “My lady,” he noted softly. “I hope you did not find the night unbearable.”

She had. She had been wretchedly wakeful, her thoughts moving from grey to black until she could not endure another moment alone. In the deep of night she had slipped to Hoarfrost's stall and spent the long hours with her horse, stroking and smoothing his dark grey coat until her mind was blank and only the only things her senses registered were the scent and warmth of horse.

It wasn't until dawn that she noticed that Windfola – Théodred's mount – had been returned, tucked into her stall and pampered with thick bedding and sweet grains. She had eaten nothing, however, not even snuffled at her food – the grain in the bin was still peaked from the pouring. Éowyn went to her, running a hand over the horse's warm muzzle. “I understand,” she whispered, moving her face close to rub her cheek on Windfola's velvety skin. “I loved him, too.”

The horse blew out her breath and blinked, her long lashes brushing the top of Éowyn's hair. At first she held herself stiffly, but, as though sensing Éowyn's need was like her own, she let her head slip, leaning gently against the young woman's face. For a long time they had stood together, feeling no better, but less alone.

“I am not the first to endure grim news,” she answered Hrodgar, unwilling to lie but too proud to let him see just how she ached. “And I worry for my uncle, for my brother, once he hears.”

The rider nodded, gesturing to his horse. “I'm riding east this morning. I will find Éomer and bring him home to you.”

She felt tears burn behind her eyes, but blinked fast to keep them at bay. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Hrodgar's wrist. 

The man smiled grimly. “I truly dread bringing him such tidings,” he confessed. “But I know,” he paused, running a hand down the smooth flank of his horse. “I know they were close, and it would not be right that he should find out by chance.”

Éowyn agreed. Since he was a boy, Éomer had idolized their cousin, haunting his footsteps and pushing for his attention even more than she had. And she needed him. She needed her brother's arms around her, needed to hear him speak of Théodred as only he could – he was the only other who had known him as Éowyn had, who had also called him cousin.

“Time grows short, if my brother is to say farewell,” Éowyn told him softly. Théodred's body was already being prepared for the pyre. Four of the traditional seven Days of Grey had already passed, and Théoden would not dishonor his son by delaying his funeral, whether Éomer got back in time or not. “May the road rise up to meet you.”

Hrodgar took his leave of her. He planned to follow the Snowbourn to the east, in the hope of coming across Éomer's éored as they returned to Edoras. Éowyn watched him go, shielding her eyes from the glare of the morning sun. “Éomer,” she whispered into the wind. “Come home to me, Éomer.”

#####

When Éowyn was small, she believed that a soul could experience only so much grief in one lifetime. When her parents died, she thought that she had suffered as much as any one person could suffer, and that any grief from that point onward would be lessened for it. She now knew that each loss was its own unique torture. Losing Théodred did not feel the same as losing her mother, but losing her mother had not hurt in quite this way, either. 

She could sleep that night no more than she had the previous, and so now she sat idle in the dim expanse of the hall. She had sent away the girl who tended the fire, taking her spot on the low couch and watching the golden flames flicker and spark. Her day had been nothing but exhausting work and a longing for solitude, and yet, now that she was alone, she wished for her uncle. Her brother. Anyone at all, so that she would not be lonely with her thoughts of Théodred and her longing for what now could never be.

What future was there for her now? She was fit to be no man's wife – too cold, too headstrong, too accustomed to doing things as she liked. For a queen, such traits could have been an asset. For a bride, they were disastrous. And yet, what other path was there for a woman of Rohan? The shieldmaidens of old were becoming legend – certainly the men of the Mark would not allow her to ride with them, to fight by their side. As Théodred's wife – as a queen of Rohan – none would have dared tell her no. But now she was just Éowyn. A shieldmaiden in a society of men. A relic of another age.

Not for the first time, she yearned for her mother, for the quiet femininity she remembered from her earliest years. Without her, there had been no one to teach Éowyn what a woman was supposed to be, and now she was only herself: no woman at all but a creature of her own making. 

And who would she wed anyway? She had never met a man who made her stand up and take note, a man worthy of her adoration. No man but Théodred.

The sound of footsteps scuffing the stone floor pulled her from her thoughts. A shadow materialized from the throne dais. Éowyn reached for the knife in her boot.

“I did not expect to find the fire so well kept.” It was the smooth voice of Gríma Wormtongue.

“What do you want?” She asked, her voice sounding tired. Her fingers released the hilt of her dagger and it slid back into her boot.

“I am restless, the same as you,” he told her. He came into the circle of firelight. “Perhaps we need not suffer alone?”

Éowyn blinked at him. Everything she did was done alone. Certainly Gríma, who watched so intently, had seen that.

The tall man crouched by the fire, warming his hands. It was the movement of a person at home near a campfire, or perhaps a cook fire in a poor, hearth-less dwelling. It didn't match Gríma's fur trimmed robes or the air of scholarly superiority that she always read in his precise posture and haughty articulation. For the first time, she wondered about his past. Who had Gríma been before he'd come to Edoras? Before he'd become Théoden's pet adviser and constant companion? He was a man as any other, after all, and all men had histories.

“I should go to bed,” she said, not liking the direction of her thoughts. She didn't want to think of Gríma Wormtongue as a man with stories to tell. With a past that had molded him into the creature he was today. She didn't want to think of him at all.

“Wait.” His voice was soft. Beseeching. He stood and took a step toward her. Two. “You have spent your hours tending to the needs of others, but has no one seen to you? All day I have watched as you push your grief aside. You have gotten no comfort from your uncle and your brother is far from home.” 

Éowyn felt herself immobilized by the cadence of his words, by the echo of compassion in his tone. Gríma stepped closer, close enough to touch, if he wished it. For a moment she could not remember the last time she had been touched with affection – surely it was not since Théodred left her nearly a week before. She closed her eyes against tears as she recalled the soft brush of his lips on her forehead.

“Has no one remembered Éowyn? Has no one remembered that she, too, cared deeply for the prince? That she has lost him as surely as the king has?” Gríma's voice was whisper-close, his body near enough that she could register its heat. She did not open her eyes. She dared not.

“How lonely it must be for you,” Gríma continued, his voice thick with concern. “In the darkness of your chamber, alone with your thoughts. With your frustrated longing. Your desire.” He put his hand, warmed nearly to burning, on her arm. His heat tore through the fabric of her sleeve, an impression of his fingers scorching into her skin, it seemed. Éowyn gasped soundlessly. It was the softest of touches, a caress.

No man had ever touched her in such a way. Not even Théodred. Her cheeks blazed as, unbidden, the echo of a fantasy came tumbling back to her. Théodred leaning close, his hand tracing an idle path down her body.

“You need never be alone,” Gríma was murmuring. His hand slid down her arm, his thumb grazing the side of her breast. Her heart leapt into her throat; her body thrummed with a need for something she did not understand. _Run._ But she could not. She was lead. She was stone.

She couldn't even open her eyes.

He had her elbow cupped in his hand when he stepped away from the flames. She was led two or three fumbling steps before the cool absence of the fire's heat registered in her ensorcelled mind. Éowyn forced herself to see again; her eyes flew open and she yanked out of his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” she demanded unsteadily as his long fingers clawed once more at her arm. “You forget yourself.”

For an instant, Gríma's expression hardened, only to be replaced a heartbeat later with the righteous surprise of the blameless. “I was only walking you to your chamber,” he insisted. “With so few men defending Meduseld, I would not have you wandering the dark corridors alone.”

Éowyn's heart was pounding in her ears; her mind was in knots. Even so, she knew there was nothing to fear in the shadowed corners of her home. She didn't check her disdain in time, and she saw Gríma read it on her face. His eager, almost friendly expression fell into a scowl. “But the shieldmaiden believes she is safer on her own,” he observed, his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer.

She was too tired to play his games and her thoughts were too muddled to try for diplomacy. “We both know full well there is none here who would dare raise a hand to me,” she told him coldly. “And should I be wrong, I am still far more deadly with my knife than you would be with an armory of swords.”

He hissed like a wounded animal, already turning the other way toward his own rooms. “One day you will need me, Lady of Rohan.” He spat the title as though it were poison. “And you will wish you had not been so cold.”

Éowyn watched him go, the chill from the stone floor seeping up through her shoes. “Such a day will never come,” she vowed softly to herself. But her voice trembled. He had the ear of Théoden. Perhaps he would turn her uncle against her, as he had Éomer.

She turned back to the fire and, with shaking hands, prodded the logs with a poker. Desolation was no longer the primary emotion consuming her. Now it was rivaled by fear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn waits. She waits for Theodred's funeral. She waits for her brother to return. And while she waits, she considers what this war might mean for her, and more importantly, for Rohan. Meanwhile, Grima sees an opening and makes his move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-creepy Grima here. Please consider yourself warned: seduction/sexual manipulation in this chapter.

In the morning, Éowyn was finally able to ride. The ladies of Edoras had shooed her away from the refugee camps early, insisting that she had worked too hard and given too much of herself. They told her to rest, that she needed her strength for the days ahead. They did not mention Théodred's funeral, planned for sunrise the next day, but she could see it in their faces that they had not forgotten. It was in their eyes, a glow of knowledge about her, about their prince. But their smiles were kind, their admonishments motherly, and Éowyn discovered that she could not deny them their charity. 

A chilly wind blew, but Éowyn relished it. Hoarfrost stamped and pranced beside her, glad to be out in the air again. He was eager to run, and so was she. They had both been made to stay too long at home – she with her work and he, waiting for her. They would ride long and fast that day. Hoarfrost deserved it.

The yard was still in the grey of early morning; Éowyn had seen only a handful of people. None of them were Gríma Wormtongue, so she was contented. She mounted in one smooth motion. She and Hoarfrost exited the gates of the city, picking up speed on the road that wound down the hill from Edoras.

The earth was soft from days of rain, and the horse stretched against the bit, happy to splash in the muddy lowlands near the watershed that fed into the Snowbourn. Éowyn smelled the air, searching for a taste of springtime in the new March sky. But she was disappointed. There was no hint of growing things, of fresh water and new earth. Winter lay grey and unyielding on the Riddermark.

She rode past the fields – lightly tilled the autumn before, but not yet ready for the plough. The rotting husks of last season's grain lay as mulch over the earth, and here and there she noticed the rusted remains of a broken ploughshare abandoned among the furrows. 

Éowyn paused, pulling Hoarfrost to a stamping standstill. Had it always been thus, that the broken parts were left to moulder among the crops? Or was this a more recent development, a sign of despondency and desolation among the people of the Mark? No one spoke of such things out loud, but she had wondered about the state of her country in the years since the king's decline. Things were not as they were in the songs and tales; that much she knew. But had they ever been? Had the might of Rohan ever been what the bards would have them believe, or had they always been a humble people, eking out their modest existence in the high plains?

She gazed out toward the mountains, their peaks and crevices as familiar as the walls of her own chamber. But the rock that used to cradle her now seemed to Éowyn to hold her hostage. To hold all of Rohan hostage. There were enemies to the east as well as the west. And what of Gondor? Not a whisper had been heard from that land since midsummer, when Boromir, son of the Steward Denethor, traveled through Edoras on his way west to seek the counsel of Elrond the Halfelven in Rivendell. He had promised to stop in on his journey home, to carry the news of Saruman's treachery to Gondor. But so far there had been no sign of him.

Éowyn looked hard at the dark shadow of the northwest mountains, where the Gap of Rohan opened beyond where her eyes could perceive. She didn't know what was out there, what might've kept a noble warrior like Boromir of Gondor from keeping his word, but she imagined that it was nothing pleasant.

But she was weary of these dark thoughts. If she had wanted to wallow in gloom she could have stayed at Meduseld. She let Hoarfrost's reins go slack and leaned low over his neck. “Fly, my friend,” she whispered in the old language of her people, the language that the horses of the Mark understood best. The beast hesitated only the breath it took for her to twist her hand into his mane, and then he was off, running free across the plain.

Éowyn clung to him, her heart racing with the rush of cold air that flowed around her and adrenaline that pulsed within. She felt her hair come loose from its plait, knew that it streamed like a banner behind her. Her breath came in short bursts, in time with the pulse of Hoarfrost's hooves against the earth. He ran for miles across the rolling prairie, slowing and finally stopping only when they reached the peak of a gentle rise.

She leaned her head on his neck, breathing the rich, horsey scent of him and enjoying the soft scratch of his mane on her cheek. She was breathless with the run, almost as much as he was. It had been a long time since she'd let Hoarfrost run like that; it was unseemly for a woman grown – the niece of the king, no less – to run wild like a boy. But Éowyn was through with caring. Théodred was gone and she had ambition to be no man's wife. If the good people of Edoras thought her unrestrained, it mattered nothing to her anymore. She would seek her pleasures where she could find them.

Éowyn slid from the saddle as Hoarfrost bent his head to graze the shaggy grass. The rise overlooked the river, and from her vantage point she could see for miles, almost to the hazy point where the Snowbourn poured into the Entwash. Far in the distance she noticed movement, and after a few long minutes she could see that a company of men came from the east. Her heart leapt. Éomer? Or was it a company of orcs? 

They were too far distant to count the figures, but they seemed enough to make up nearly a full éored, were they her brother's men. She guided Hoarfrost a few paces away from the ridge, then crouched in the grass, peering down at the platoon. Orc eyes were made for catching movement; she couldn't risk them seeing her. If they were orcs.

More than a quarter of an hour passed while she watched. The group approached quickly, quickly enough that Éowyn realized they must be on horseback. Éomer, then, or some other group of Rohirrim. Only when her muscles relaxed did she realize that they had been tensed, preparing to bolt. She watched a few minutes longer, hoping for confirmation that it was Éomer's éored before taking word back to Meduseld. It wasn't until she saw the banner – a golden horse head on a dark red field, the echo of Théodred's gold upon green – that she knew for sure that it was the éored of the Third Marshal.

They were following the river at an army's pace, so it would be two hours or more before they arrived in Edoras. Éowyn could reach home in a fragment of that time by cutting across the plain and letting Hoarfrost run. Hrodgar had undoubtedly found Éomer and delivered his terrible news. She wanted to get to Meduseld with enough time to have his rooms readied, some food prepared, water heated for a bath. She could give him physical comfort at least, to help soften the emotional blow.

She mounted her horse and turned his head toward home. “Go,” she urged him, squeezing with her knees. “Take us home.”

#####

The kitchen maids were delighted to learn that Éomer was returning. None of them were attached to the men of his éored – none that Éowyn knew of, at least – but Éomer had always been a favorite among the female population of Meduseld. She lingered in the doorway to the pantry, eating bread with cheese and listening to the women discuss her brother. 

Two of the youngest girls cheerfully bickered over who would bring him soap, giggling over the idea that he might let one of them wash his hair, though why, Éowyn couldn't guess. He was brave and strong, and handsome enough, she supposed, but she was pretty certain that he'd never shown any woman more courtesy than he would give a stranger. He was odd in that way, her brother. More interested in honor and duty than chasing skirts like the other boys they'd grown up with.

When he was promoted to Third Marshal and moved to his post in Aldburg, other young men took his place as the primary object of female scrutiny at Meduseld, but his visits were eagerly looked-for, even years later. Éowyn noted that Théodred had never attracted the same kind of attention; she did not know if this was because he was the prince, and therefore too lofty for infatuation, or if it was only that she had watched him closer, longer, seeing what others missed. 

Either way, she was glad. In her eyes, Théodred shined. He never seemed to have dalliances with any of the women of the household, and by the time Éowyn was fourteen or fifteen, she had begun to pay the matter some sharp attention. To this day, she did not know if he had, in fact, been the paragon of virtue she had girlishly believed, or if he'd simply managed discretion where others had not.

Milthryd, the woman from the baths, came in to say that the water had heated quickly, and as there was still some time before Lord Éomer's arrival, she urged Éowyn to take the first batch herself. Éowyn hadn't thought she looked that bad, but she supposed she smelled like horses. Besides that, she was chilled from the wind, and a soak in hot water would do wonders for her numb toes.

Meduseld had an entire room just for bathing – a luxury that must've had its origin in a time when Rohan had a queen as well as a king. It was a small room, with a hearth for heating water and a long, low bench for dressing. The floor was paved with smooth slate and a vent in the roof let out steam, saving the oaken ceiling beams from rot. The pool was sunk into the floor and filled directly from the cauldron in the fire by way of a shallow channel – once the iron vessel was hot enough, it was merely tipped on its chains and the water inside flowed into the waiting bathtub. A brazier of smooth river stones was also heated, and the stones could be carefully moved into the bath, should the water become too cool.

Éowyn dismissed the attendant and picked up the iron tongs herself. She added several red-hot stones to the pool before bending to unlace her boots. She liked the water to steam. Her skin turned pink as soon as she slipped into the tub. Steam slicked her face with sweat and her hair began to curl damply against her temples. Éowyn breathed deeply, inviting the heat deep into her lungs. This was the only place she was ever truly warm in the wintertime.

She soaked for long minutes, sinking deep into the water until the wild mass of her hair floated on the surface around her face. Slowly, it too sank, and she closed her eyes. Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to her uncle's ill-health and the state of Rohan. Without a proper heir – without Théodred – the king had the right to choose any man he wished to carry on after him. It would have been Éomer, once upon a time. But now – now the most that Éowyn could hope was that it wasn't Gríma Would her uncle have the presence of mind to choose wisely for Rohan? Or would the country slip that much further into ruin?

Tears pricked her eyes and she squeezed them tight. She would not think of her uncle. She would not imagine him dying, too.

She sat up in the water and reached for the soft, minty soap. She lathered her hair, appalled at the knots, and dunked it again and again in the warm water. By the time she finished washing, the water was cool and cloudy with soap. For a moment she considered heating the bath with more stones and soaking until her fingers and toes wrinkled, but her time grew short. She slid aside the stopper, and the dirty water drained through another channel, this one as deep as the pool and sloping down beneath the floor.

She pulled her flannel wrap about her, blocking out the chill that hung in the air despite the fire and hot water. She pulled a wooden comb from her bundle and set about untangling. It was worse than she had expected, the wind and the ride having twisted the long locks into snarls. But she worked patiently, adding oil to the worst of them and easing the comb through the knots. Her hair was the only thing she was patient with. Her mother had taught her long ago that beautiful hair took work, but that it was always worth the effort. She used to sing as she combed, and now Éowyn missed the feeling of her mother's hands smoothing her hair as her sweet voice soothed her spirit.

“It seems a pity that you have been left to do that on your own.” The voice spoke softly from the doorway.

Éowyn looked up through damp locks, somehow not even startled. It was as though some part of her had been expecting Gríma, even though it should have been impossible for him to be there. “I sent Milthryd away,” she told him. She resisted the impulse to tug on her wrap, to make sure it covered her completely; she did not want to draw attention to such things.

He walked into the room, letting the door close silently behind him. Some small part of her mind registered his audacity. She waited for outrage that did not come.

“You are too often left alone,” Gríma said softly. “Too often unnoticed.” He crossed the room on silent feet and perched on the bench beside her. “May I?” he asked, reaching for her comb.

Her numb fingers released it, and a moment later it was in her hair. Gríma's hands were in her hair, very gently combing through the tangles. Éowyn barely breathed. “What are you doing?” she asked weakly. Her knife was too far away, tucked into her boot, but she knew she could render him harmless with her hands alone. Only, her will to fight was lacking. Instead, she was curious.

She twisted about to meet his gaze. His face was almost kindly, except for those sharp blue eyes that would not soften. “I am caring for you,” he said softly. Then he returned to his work. A bit at a time, he eased the snarls from her hair, placing the smoothed locks together over one shoulder. Beneath them, the flannel of her wrap soaked through, and the exposed skin of her neck grew warm from the touch of Gríma's breath against it.

Éowyn had no idea why she allowed this, why she sat so still as this man took such liberties with her. But his hands were gentle; his body was warm beside her. He crooned soothing syllables into her ear, and she closed her eyes. The half-remembered melody of her mother's song hummed in her throat, and then Gríma had taken it up, his low voice rising and falling like the swells of wind over ripe fields of grain.

His hand was on her waist, sliding down to feel the curve of her hip through the grey flannel. Something between a gasp and a cry rose in Éowyn's chest, but it dissipated into nothing as the memory of Théodred's kiss tumbled back to her. She imagined her cousin leaning closer, his hand tilting her chin up so that he could kiss her again, his lips this time capturing hers.

And then her shoulder was bare and Gríma's mouth upon it, and then on her neck. She blinked as the room swam before her. “What are you doing?” she asked, again, her words underwater. The heat of his kiss sent a shiver through her body, and Éowyn couldn't tell if it were revulsion or desire.

“I am caring for you,” he repeated, a damp whisper against her ear. “To my eyes, you are beautiful,” he told her.

The word triggered a hazy memory. Théodred. “My prince thought me beautiful,” she whispered.

Gríma's voice was like honey. “Théodred thought you a flower – a delicate thing to be preserved.” He kissed a place beneath her ear and Éowyn's lips parted, breath difficult. “To me you are a crystal goblet – glorious to behold, but meant to be used. To be handled and touched.” 

His fingers found their way across her thigh, burning trails toward where the skin was sensitive. Untouched. His nails scraped against the thin flannel, gathering the material beneath his palm. A breath of cool air tickled her calves where the wrap parted. “You need not live unloved,” he whispered.

The flannel wrap hung limp around one elbow, her shoulder bare and the rise of her breast exposed to Gríma's hungry gaze. No man had seen her thus. 

A thought tugged at her from a deep, faraway place. _No man had dared._ She looked back at Gríma, wondering what sort of reckless bravery allowed him to be there. Doing this. The idea stirred her, made her reconsider him. There had always seemed little about Gríma to admire, but he was no hideous beast – he had been built the same as any other man. And now he boldly made known what he desired; for love of her, he named it.

 _For love of her._ Had any man truly loved her before? Even Théodred, who had chance upon chance to speak, but went to his death without a single promise uttered?

Perhaps she need not love in return. Perhaps she could be contented with this.

“If you value your life, worm, you will unhand my sister!” Éomer's voice startled her from the sway of her thoughts, and Gríma jerked away with an angry hiss. 

“Come away from him, Éowyn” Her brother stood in the doorway and beckoned with his free hand, his voice low and furious. He was in his armor yet, still filthy from days on the road. He wore no helm, and rage was etched across his face, his eyes never leaving Gríma's

“You no longer have power in this court,” Gríma insisted, standing up. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in an animal's snarl, and his voice was sharp. Taunting. Nothing like the murmured endearments of before – it was as though another man spoke.

Something snapped in Éowyn's mind, and it was as if a dark enchantment lifted. Her fingers scrambled for the edge of her wrap, yanking it back over her naked shoulder. Her stomach twisted with horror. She leapt away from the bench, away from Gríma, the feel of his mouth still burning like poison on her skin.

Éomer advanced slowly, his sword drawn before him. “I need no more power than this,” he said, nodding at the blade, “to dispatch a coward like you.”

Gríma was quick. In one slick motion he kicked the brazier. It fell to the floor in a clatter of iron and a cascade of sparks and red-hot stones. Éomer jumped back, barely able to keep from being burned. About a third of the rocks fell into the pool, into the water that had not yet fully drained. Steam clouded the room.

Éowyn lunged for her clothes, desperate to reach her knife. At the same moment, Gríma grasped the long iron tongs and advanced upon her brother.

Éomer scoffed. “You mean to harm me with a bath maid's tool?” He hopped lightly over the barricade of stones, his long strides bringing him close to his quarry. “Now get out of here,” he demanded, his voice dark and threatening. “Leave Meduseld and Edoras and then keep running until the borders of Rohan itself are behind you. Go back to Isengard, back to your master.”

Éowyn blanched. Had he proof? Had Éomer discovered a link between Gríma and Saruman?

For a moment Gríma fell back, his legs bumping the low bench. He made a sound like an angry dog. “I serve the King of Rohan!” he spat. “And the king knows you serve only your own ambition.”

Éomer roared, lifting his sword. Éowyn thought he meant to skewer Gríma for his insult, but all he did was knock the tongs from his grasp. They clattered against the floor and the king's adviser cried out in pain, grasping his wrist. “You will pay for this,” he threatened through clenched teeth, but it did not stop Éomer's approach. 

He narrowed his eyes. “Not before you pay for laying your filthy hands on my sister!”

Háma and Éadric burst through the doorway. “Éomer!” Háma cried, yanking her brother back so suddenly that he lost his grip on his sword.

“Throw this man into the dungeon!” Gríma howled, cradling his wrist against his stomach. “He is a traitor! He meant to kill me!”

The guards' meaty hands gripped Éomer's arms, tugging him close between them so that he had no room to fight free. But Éowyn noted that he was not fighting at all. He stood proud and tall, even while Wormtongue spat his lie.

Háma looked to Éowyn, his amber eyes troubled. She flinched beneath his gaze and pulled her wrap close, winding her arms around her middle. “Is this what happened, my lady?” he asked.

Gríma's eyes widened. “You question my word?” he demanded. “I, who am nearest to the king?” He moved forward, and the lingering steam parted, curling around him and clinging to the fur of his robe. “This man has already disobeyed Lord Théoden's direct orders. Now he slinks in here to murder me before his own sister's gaze.” He shook his head, disgust twisting his long face. “Remove him.” 

The men left the room, Éomer walking between them. He turned back before they cleared the doorway, his eyes meeting Éowyn's. Shame crashed over her and she could not hold his gaze. “Do not trust his words, Éowyn!” he called, a desperate edge to his voice. “He can make lies sound like wisdom!”

And then he was gone, without a fight, without a struggle, he let the king's guard – men he had known since he was a boy – haul him out of the bath chamber, through the great hall, and down to the dungeon.

The instant they were alone, Gríma turned to Éowyn.

“Come no closer!” she warned before he could say a word. She had picked up her brother's sword and now held it before her. “If you take even a step, none will question what I do in self-defense.” He was vile, loathsome. How had she thought, for even a moment, that it was better to be loved by such a creature than to be proudly alone? At that moment, she despised herself, her own skin, almost as much as she hated him.

Gríma set his jaw, his greying beard twitching. “As you bid, my lady,” he purred in a mockery of courtesy. “There is time enough for you to recognize the way the wind blows.” He bowed and turned on his heel, leaving the room still and silent but for her own breath.

She was trembling, trying to make sense of the things that had happened, the things she had allowed. Had she been enchanted? Gríma was a snake, but he was no wizard. Tears dampened the corners of her eyes, but she ignored them, straightened her spine. She would not cry.

She dressed quickly and twisted her damp hair into a loose knot at the base of her skull. 

“My lady?” Milthryd's lined face peeked through the doorway. “Will you still be needing me to heat a bath for your brother?”

It was an obvious fish for information, but Éowyn could not fault the old woman. She had helped to raise them both, after all. She shook her head. “Not presently,” she told her. 

The woman stepped into the room. “Then may I help you with your hair?”

It was sloppy, Éowyn knew. And no one in Meduseld could match Milthryd's fingers for plaiting. “No. Thank you.” She gathered up her things and tucked her brother's blade beneath her arm. “I must speak with my uncle.”

#####

The king was not in the hall. Éowyn hurried down the corridor to his personal rooms, barely slowing as a guard tried to stop her. “I must speak with my uncle,” she snapped. “It is a family matter.” He was young and easily cowed, for he stepped aside with no further argument.

Théoden's rooms were kingly in the manner of Rohan – his floor was carpeted with soft furs and rugs rather than rushes, and thick, old tapestries decorated the walls. This was where he'd conducted most of the business of running the kingdom lately, nine steps from his bedroom and close to a warm, cheerful fire. 

She found him breaking his fast at the table – a fine, oaken table with the image of Felaróf, the sire of the Mearas, inlayed into its surface. It had been made for his great-great-grandfather by the elves of the Golden Wood, back when trust between Rohan and Lórien was stronger. When Éowyn was a child, the table had stood in the great hall, used for diplomatic talks and war counsels, but now her uncle used it as a place to take his meals. 

Gríma was already by his side, pouring the king's wine. He looked up sharply when Éowyn entered the chamber. “What is this?” he asked the guard at the door. “Didn't I say that the king was not to be disturbed?”

Éowyn ignored him. “Uncle,” she said, dipping into curtsey as she spoke. “Uncle, please, you must release Éomer. He has done nothing wrong!” 

Théoden peered at her over his roasted duck. His eyes were pale and clouded with illness. “Did he not attempt the murder of my counsel?” he asked blandly. “Did he not go against my wishes, leaving Edoras open for attack?”

“We were not attacked,” Éowyn coaxed. “And he would not have come home had he not destroyed the orc army as he promised. It was for love of Edoras – for love of you and for Rohan – that he left.”

For a long moment the king did not answer. Éowyn hoped he was considering her words, that they hadn't been immediately lost in the haze of his age and sickness. So many words seemed to be be, these days. “And Gríma?” he asked at last. “Did Éomer not wound Gríma this very morning?”

It was then that Éowyn noticed the bandage wrapped around Wormtongue's wrist. At the king's question he pulled the wrist against his body, sheltering it, though he had not done so before. Disgust rose in her throat.

“My brother acted in my defense!” she cried. “Gríma had been –” But she could not tell him what Gríma had been doing. She could not say that he had put his hands on her, put his mouth on her. Not without admitting that she had allowed it. Even wanted it, though she could not fathom that, now. She fell silent, feeling sick as her uncle waited for her explanation.

Théoden pushed his plate aside and leaned across the table toward her. His expression softened, and for a moment she got a glimpse the man who had loved her as a father for so many years. “Éowyn, sister-daughter,” he said in a low, lucid voice. “Did Gríma threaten you?”

She thought she would cry, hearing the tenderness in his voice. She longed to tell him the truth, but was too ashamed to think of how. And of all the words Gríma had whispered in her ears, none had been threats, only twisted seductions. Éowyn shook her head. “No, Uncle,” she whispered, her voice thick. 

He studied her for a long time, his expression at first shrewd, but slowly losing its vigor. Finally, he blinked as though confused, and the king was gone – only a tired old man remained. “My order stands,” he said. He returned to his meal.

Éowyn stepped backward, defeated. She wished she could remind him that it hadn't been his order at all, but Gríma's. But there was no room for such observations. She lived on his charity. On his mercy. 

Though perhaps now, it was Gríma's mercy she should seek.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and his companions arrive at Meduseld the same day as Théodred's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first of probably many which overlap Tolkien's own work. In it, I've paraphrased his scene, using much of the dialogue. While I try to write my scenes as stand-alone as I can, sometimes it is valuable to re-visit the original to get the full depth of conversations and actions that Éowyn herself might not have too much a part in.

Théodred's funeral pyre had been built the night before, so its shadow already dominated the pre-dawn landscape as Éowyn and the other mourners made their way out of the city toward the circle of stones which had stood longer than any memory. In one glance, Éowyn took in the chest-high structure of dried lumber, the thick pallet of woven grasses that rested atop it. Then she cast her eyes down to her shoes as they crunched through the frosty grass. The air was crisp, cold, and her breath formed a misty cloud before her, just as it had that last morning before he'd ridden. If she didn't look up, she could almost imagine that it was yet that day.

Eight of the king's guard acted as pallbearers, carrying his bier at shoulder-height between them. Éowyn did not watch as they lifted Théodred's body onto the pyre, as they poured oil over him, over his finest garments and the gold-woven shroud that had been part of his mother's dowry. She had seen Théodred when the women tended to him, smoothing his skin with oils and arranging hair that shone gold next to the silver of his princely crown. She had seen her father doused and burned on his own pyre. Both images would stay with her always – she had no need to look now. She closed her eyes.

As a child she had played among the barrows of the kings, picking the flowers of the simbelmynë and winding them into fragrant ropes of treats for the horses. Théodred would often find her there, and once he had told her that it was his destiny to lie beneath a mound himself, for he, too, would one day be a king of Rohan.

The idea inspired nightmares of being buried alive and clawing her way up to the surface as the air slowly thinned. Often she'd dream the inverse as well: herself atop the flowered hill, scratching and tearing at the grass with her hands as the sounds of Théodred's cries came muffled from beneath the earth. Éowyn stopped playing in the barrow field after that, sad that her cousin was doomed to imprisonment there, even if it meant he would get to rule the Riddermark first.

But now he lay on the opposite side of the city, far from the uneven rows of white-blossomed tombs. He lay on a pyre for burning, no king at all. Though it crossed her mind that he had escaped the prison of the barrows, she knew he would rather have endured an eternity of that breathless darkness, the weight of a thousand years of earth above him, than this. 

He had meant to be king.

Dawn cracked the eastern sky and a blush of golden-pink light spilled over the cold, dark stones that circled them. It missed the slit in the largest, it being weeks too soon for the equinox when the morning light would have illuminated the pyre and ignited the wood and oil beneath it. A man did this instead. 

As the morning sunlight washed over the cluster of mourners, Théodred began to burn.

Éowyn stood ramrod straight, ignoring the lightheaded dizziness that churned her empty stomach. Somewhere behind her, a child wailed. 

It was King Théoden himself who chanted the words of the dead as the flames licked upward, tasting oil and reaching for his son's body. Éowyn could not hear much above the roar of flame, but the cadence and intonation were familiar enough for her to follow along, mouthing the words silently. _Be thou steady. Be thou strong. Ride hard to reach the embrace of the next world._

He stood at the front of the crowd, apart from everyone save Gríma and Háma. The former didn't bear looking at, but the captain of the guard stood straight and still, his face awash with the red-orange glow of the fire. As Théoden's thin, parched voice broke into a cough that sounded almost like a sob, Háma looked down, his mouth pulling into a frown. Éowyn remembered that he and Théodred had been friends, playmates from childhood. 

Éowyn realized suddenly that she was Théodred's only female relative. It fell to her, then, to begin the lament, though she had not considered it during that whole week of mourning. She began unsteadily, her voice unused for song those past weeks. _Where now the horse and rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?_ It was a song for kings, but though Théodred was refused a king's burial, none would deny him their song. _Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?_

More voices took up the song – women first, men joining only after the questioning first lines were finished. Éowyn heard a discordant voice and turned her head to find it. A woman, barely more than a girl, stood nearby, unable to sing for the sobs that wracked her body. Éowyn watched her for a long moment, heavy with the knowledge that she should be that girl. Théodred was her cousin. The man she thought to marry.

Éowyn's eyes were dry.

Her heart was a lump of ice in her chest and she thought the cold might rub her insides raw. The fire-heated air gusted against her, and still she was cold. It smelled like wood smoke and burning hair and, beneath that, like roasting meat. Her stomach recoiled. Théodred's hair. Théodred's flesh.

She realized didn't want to stay as the lament ended, its last notes whipped away on the same wind that carried the rolling smoke toward Meduseld. And then there was just the murmur of the fire and the weeping.

The pyre burned for an hour or more. People drifted away. Éowyn stood like a pillar, longing for the scent of fresh straw, for Hoarfrost's soft nicker as he nuzzled the spot behind her ear. She longed for her brother's hand in hers. She didn't want to stay, but she did not move, unwilling to shame herself. Unwilling to turn from Théodred even a moment too soon.

At last the king was led away, Gríma's hand on his back, his forehead close to Théoden's shoulder. He seemed to soothe, to whisper condolences; Éowyn wondered what poison he would offer a man who just burned his only son. The king's departure released the rest of them, though only a handful of the most steadfast mourners remained: much of the king's guard, the old woman who tended to Théodred in his boyhood. The crying girl had long-ago been led away by her family. Hrodgar stood nearby, his head bowed and eyes damp.

Éowyn slipped away before anyone could speak to her.

*****

She stepped carefully down the earthen hallway. There was no one there, save herself and her brother and the pair of guards at the door behind her, but she felt uneasy, unwilling to awaken any ghosts that might linger there.

Edoras's dungeons were nothing like the dank, rat-infested holes that the word usually evoked. Rather, they were a cluster of tiny cells that had been dug out of the hillside below Meduseld in the days of Aldor the Old. Of the seven chambers, only one or two were ever used at one time, and then mostly because someone had disturbed the peace: brawlers and belligerent drunks, usually. Blood ran hot in Rohan, particularly after some great victory or during too long a spell of monotonous peace.

She peeked through the twisted wrought iron that barred a small square cut into the door of Éomer's cell. All of the rooms were kept clean and bright – because they primarily held the king's own men, Éowyn surmised – and her brother's was no different. The walls were whitewashed and a broad window let in the sunlight as it fell across the southern hillside. The window was barred with iron, of course, but even that was as lovely as the rest of the hall – wrought in ornate twists and spirals.

His cell was furnished with a low bed and a table just large enough to eat a meal. Éomer was curled up on the bed, his face to the wall. To the rest of the world he would seem to sleep, but Éowyn knew him too well. His habit had always been to sleep on his back, sprawled and snoring. 

“Éomer,” she said softly. She lifted the bolt on his door and slipped inside.

Her brother jumped up. “Éowyn!” he cried. He pulled her close in an impulsive hug. Éowyn felt her face flush with surprise – demonstrations of Éomer's affection were rare. “I was worried for you,” he said against her hair. His hands gripped her arms and he held her at arms' length, his eyes searching her face. “Please say that Gríma did not –” 

Mortified, Éowyn shook her head. “No!” she cried, and any more she might've explained was smothered by embarrassment and shame that her brother should even have to ask such a question. She shook her head again, feeling foolishly emphatic.

For a long moment, Éomer seemed to search her eyes for the truth he needed. At last, his face relaxed into relief and he let her go. Éowyn's breath caught. She had somehow not anticipated this, this emotion that came from her brother having seen her in such a position with Gríma. It made her anxious, like a child caught stealing cheese from the larder. But it was clear that her answer satisfied Éomer's concern – Gríma had not forced himself upon her and her maidenhead was intact. 

While she was glad of such a thing as well, Éowyn was far from satisfied. And as Éomer leaned back onto his bed once more, she was almost insulted by his easiness. 

It seemed to her that he saw only two paths the situation could have taken: one which led to rape and one which led to safety. As Gríma had not forced himself upon her, then, to Éomer's mind, she had trodden the path of safety, and that was the end of it.

But Éowyn was not safe. She had been wounded. She could not say where or how, but something had been sorely hurt within her, and she was terrified that Gríma would find the tender spot again and press it until she gave in to him. And that was the worst of it – knowing that she might give in, eventually. That the day might come when she would despair, and allowing herself to be seduced by Gríma Wormtongue would seem a better fate than being left alone with her misery.

But what way was there to express such a thing to Éomer? “I have come from Théodred's pyre,” she said instead, for even such an awful topic was better than trying to explain that Gríma had somehow tangled her loneliness with his own power.

Éomer looked stricken. “I smell the smoke in your hair,” he said. “But no one told me – has it been a full seven days already?”

She dropped down onto the bed beside him. “It was terrible,” she told him. The smell. The sobbing girl. Théoden's broken cough. She wanted to tell him all, but her voice fell away from her. Éowyn wondered that she still did not cry. She stared at the wall, wretched. 

She felt her brother shift on the bed, felt his hand cover hers. “I am sorry I was not there,” he said softly. “I should have been there,” His voice tremored, and there was a raw edge to it. It made Éowyn wonder whether he meant he should have been at the funeral or if he thought he could have saved their cousin, had he been at the Fords himself.

Éowyn didn't know what to say. She and Éomer had never gone in for deep conversations – their relationship was close and easy, but they rarely spoke intimately. She had desperately wanted to see him – it seemed he was the only person in the whole world who would understand how she felt – but now she wasn't comforted at all. She wished she were seven years old again, when nothing made her feel safer and more loved than her big brother's arm around her shoulders.

“I cannot believe Uncle allowed Gríma to do this to you,” she said after a long moment. 

Éomer's mouth twisted into a grimace. “I don't wish to speak of what our uncle has recently allowed,” he snarled.

His fury was nothing new – Éomer was no better tempered than most of the Rohirrim – but to hear such anger in his voice as he spoke of their uncle unsettled her. He and Théoden were her only kin now. If they no longer stood together she did not know what she would do. 

He put his hand over his eyes, rubbing at his temples. “I'm sorry,” he told her. “I have not been myself these last few days.” The broken quality of his voice made Éowyn's insides knot. “And it is not the king's fault he is unwell.”

“Is it true, then?” she asked hesitantly. “Did you find proof that Gríma works for Saruman?”

“No proof, but Théodred and I have suspected for some time. I should not have revealed our suspicions to him.” He looked out the window. “Théodred believes – Théodred believed that he was sent by Saruman to undermine the king. I would not be surprised if Saruman plans to claim all of Rohan as his own dominion.”

Her blood felt cold inside her veins. “But Gríma has been at Meduseld for years,” she said faintly. “Long before Uncle was ill. Surely, if he had been Saruman's man all this time, the king would have noticed.”

“You're defending him?” Éomer's tone was incredulous and turning toward anger. “After what he tried to –”

“I am not!” Éowyn cried, jumping to her feet. “I am defending our uncle. I am defending Háma and the rest of the king's guard. If what you say is true, we have all been blinded, been made fools by this, this worm of a man!”

“That is what he does, Sister. It is what he learned from the wizard.” His voice was softer, but he spoke as though she were a child. “Certainly you know this firsthand, for how else would he have caught you? His words weave spells. Théodred and I believe – we believed – that his father has been ensorcelled these five years at least.”

“It cannot be,” she whispered. But it could be true. It very possibly could be true.

“And Hrodgar told me that the Uruks they fought at the Fords of Isen were interspersed with orcs from the east. From Mordor. It seems that Saruman is certainly, as we feared, in league with Sauron.”

She sat once more on the bed beside him. Her thoughts were spinning, her head beginning to ache. Their king was impaired. His general – his only son – killed. Éomer was imprisoned. And still the enemy snarled at their doorstep, surrounding them. “What can we do?” she asked meekly.

Éomer dropped his head into his hands. “I don't know,” he said in a low voice. “I am useless in this cell, and I am sure Gríma has poisoned the king against me. He will not soon let me out.”

“I will persuade him.” She sounded more confident than she felt. “Our lord uncle loves you, Éomer. He needs only to be reminded.” She thought of all the times lately that her words bounced, unheard or unheeded, off of the king. But it would not be like that this time. She would make him hear.

Her brother did not answer.

For a long time they sat in silence and shared misery. Since Théodred's departure, the world had come tumbling down upon them both. Upon all of Rohan, it seemed. Without her cousin, it was not only her own future that was uncertain. She wondered if her uncle would sit by, stubbornly uncomprehending, as Meduseld burned around him.

“Did Théodred think to marry me?” she asked her brother suddenly. She knew she should not ask – it was a trifling, selfish concern, given everything that was happening in Rohan – but the question had lived in her mind for too many years for her to dismiss it completely. Even now.

Éomer looked up at her, startled. A look crossed his face – astonishment, and, to Éowyn's surprise, pain. “It is not the time for such questions,” he said. He waved his hand dismissively, but it shook. She had not thought such a question, rudely mistimed though it was, would shock her brother.

“Please.” Éowyn knew she should not persist. Though she did not understand why, she could read her brother well enough that she knew she should leave it. But she could not. “If anyone knew our cousin's heart, it is you.”

“No.” His head drooped toward the floor, his eyes squeezing shut. “I know what you wish to hear, but I cannot –” Éomer's voice was rough, raw with pain. “I will not speak of Théodred!”

Silence fell between them once more. Shame crawled over Éowyn. He, too, suffered with the loss of their cousin. “I am sorry,” she whispered at last, reaching for his hand and squeezing it hard. “I will go.”

He looked at her with wounded eyes, but he did not ask her to stay. Instead he ducked his head close, so their foreheads pressed together. “Will you come back?” he asked softly.

Éowyn felt the tightness of her mouth relax into the start of a smile. “Every day,” she promised, her fingers tightening around his.

*****

The guards spotted the strangers nearly an hour before they arrived, and Éowyn took it upon herself to inform her uncle. When she entered his chamber it was dim – the curtains were yet drawn against the morning sun – and the Lord of the Mark sat near the hearth, gazing at the flames. She wondered what he was seeing, not the fire, but something far distant and perhaps long ago.

“My lord?” She knelt before his chair, covered his hands with her own. His hands were cold, his skin loose and thin like onion skin. “My lord, four strangers approach on steeds of Rohan. Will you come to the hall to meet them?”

Théoden blinked slowly, as though her voice came to him through a thick fog. “Your brother's dark tidings ring true, then,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Of all dark days for the House of Eorl, this must be the blackest.” He pulled his hand from hers, waved her away. “Leave me to mourn my son, child.”

Éowyn tried to smile even though his dismissal stung. “Perhaps not so dark, Uncle,” she urged him softly. “These strangers may come with good news. With aid.” She did not believe it, not truly, but thought a touch of hope, no matter how slight, might help rouse him from this fell mood. 

A derisive laugh barked from the doorway. “It is most unlikely that Gandalf the Grey comes to help,” he said. “He and his companions come to clear our larders and empty our stables of our best animals, more like.”

Théoden's head lifted, his eyes glinting sharply. “Gandalf?” he asked. “Are you certain?”

It had been less than six months since the wizard's last audience with the king in Meduseld. Before, it had been at least seven years between visits, and possibly an entire score previous to that. Éomer had even brought word that he had fallen, though it seemed he was misled. To see the grey wizard again so soon seemed a dark omen, even to Éowyn

But Théoden stood. His eyes were bright with a grim pleasure. “I will grant audience to Gandalf and his companions,” he decided. “Come, Gríma” 

They left Éowyn to follow or not, as she pleased. She stood helplessly and watched her uncle make his slow way to the door, his walking-stick thumping the wood floor beneath the furs. Gríma clutched at the king's elbow, already leaning close to offer his toxic advice.

She considered not going with them, of heading instead to her rooms where she could be alone with the day's sorrows. She thought of Hoarfrost, impatient in his stall. Of her sword, untouched these two weeks since her training master rode to war. There were ways – independent of her uncle's regard – that she could find distraction, if not solace.

But curiosity won out and she found herself trailing behind the king and his pet.

It was good that she did. Once in the hall, there were things to prepare: the fire needed rebuilt, the curtains drawn from the windows. The whole of Meduseld had seemed a dark cavern since Théodred left, but the morning sunlight that streamed through transformed it into a hall worthy of the Lord of the Mark. 

The king sat on his throne on the dais, wrapped in fur despite the crackling fire. The flames' warmth would take time to reach so far, and February's chill lingered into the new month. He drew his cloak more closely around him as the doors on the far side of the hall opened.

Four figures silhouetted against the sunshine and the sound of their footsteps was heard upon the stone floor before the guards closed the door once more, blocking out the over-abundant light. Gandalf led the party, leaning on his sleek staff. It seemed almost to glow as he walked between patches of sunlight. A straight-backed ranger came close behind him, followed by what seemed to Éowyn to be a dwarf and an elf, though she had no memory of either race ever visiting Edoras before.

“Hail, Théoden son of Thengel!” The wizard's voice filled the vast hall, pulling Éowyn's attention away from his odd companions. “I have returned. For behold! the storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed.” His face was friendly, but wary.

With good reason. Théoden's reception was not so warm. He stood, and Éowyn was surprised at the scornful pride in his countenance. He bid the party a most unwelcome greeting, and as he shakily resumed his seat, Gríma added his own tirade, and Éowyn heard the accusation he dared not speak: _As one wizard has turned on Rohan, why not two?_

Listening, Éowyn was torn. She did not trust Gríma, and would gladly stand opposed to most anything that he supported, but his words rang true nonetheless. Gandalf had seemed a raving madman the last time he had stood in that spot. And he had dared to take Shadowfax – the finest of the Mearas, who deigned to carry only kings of the Mark on their backs – over all the fine animals offered him. She wondered how he had coaxed the horse to bear him, wondered if the animal had been ensorcelled.

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late,” the wizard was saying, and Éowyn felt a flush of embarrassment. It was true. This was no way to greet visitors, be they friends or not. Gríma called them beggars, but it was clear to Éowyn they were not. Beneath the grime of hard travel, their garments were fine – the elf wore a tunic whose weave Éowyn had never before seen the like, and the dwarf had gold and silver beads woven into the plaits of his dark beard. The ranger's gear was old, it was true, but it was well-made and well cared-for. His back was straight and his eyes keen, more the heir to the kings that he claimed to be than any lowly pauper.

And their cloaks! The grey of Lothlórien, if the wizard was to be believed. Each was clasped with a leaf-shaped brooch that shimmered and glinted even in the filtered light of the hall. She gazed in wonder at the four. They had done more than survive the perilous Golden Wood; they had come out with the Lady's blessing, it seemed. A shiver passed deep within Éowyn She had seemed little more than a myth to her – a bedtime story, a warning to make children mind. Logically she knew that the Lady of Lórien must exist – those same elves had been counted as friends of the Mark once, long ago – but it did not seem possible.

Her gaze flicked to the elf. He was tall and slender, his long hair pulled back in an intricate braid. She could not determine his age. Older than Éomer, certainly. She might say he looked of an age with Théodred, but for his eyes. They were both ancient and ageless. She thought of the Lady of the Golden Wood – she featured in tales of ages past and yet she had spoken with these very travelers just days before. Was this elf so old? So immortal?

The dwarf was simpler to comprehend. Théodred had met dwarves when he traveled to Minas Tirith, and Éowyn herself owned a corset of dwarven make. They were exotic, to be sure, but not mystical and half a dream. And this dwarf was angry. His hands flexed as though longing for a weapon, and Éowyn realized that Gríma had said something insulting about the Lady Galadriel.

She had barely time to wonder at the sight of this dwarf snarling in defense of an elven female when Gandalf flung aside his cloak, revealing stark white garments and a staff that no longer seemed a walking stick. The air seemed to shiver around it, rippling and pulsing with magical energy.

“The wise speak only what they know, Gríma, son of Gálmód,” The wizard chastened fiercely. “A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man till the lightning falls.”

The sunlight disappeared behind sudden dark clouds, and Éowyn stepped backward, longing for a sword in her hand. She knew not whom she would use it upon, but the room felt ominous, and a blade would help her feel steady. The fire flickered and faded away, leaving the hall in deep darkness. Then it seemed that Gandalf himself was glowing – blue-white and so bright that Éowyn had to look away.

Gríma yelled some desperate nonsense and there was a magnificent flash. White sparks cascaded onto the stone floor. Éowyn ducked her head. She heard Gríma hiss.

And then it was over. Wormtongue lay sprawled, face-down on the floor before the dais. His back rose with breath, and though she didn't understand why, Éowyn felt some relief that he lived yet.

The fire on the hearth spluttered and sparked and then roared to life, called back by some unknown force. Éowyn's terror melted into awe, and she looked wonderingly at Gandalf and his companions – they seemed unsurprised by this show of his might. Rather, a hint of a smile played at the ranger's lips and the dwarf looked downright smug.

She looked to her uncle, who had silently watched the entire spectacle. His expression had changed. He watched the wizard with interest.

With wonder.

“Not all is dark,” Gandalf said gently. “Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find.” He bid the king to come outdoors with him, into the wind and the sunshine, seemingly unaware of the morning's funeral. Éowyn thought her uncle would not go. He would find it hard to attend to the wizard's counsel while the lingering smoke of Théodred's pyre swirled about them.

But he stood, and the hall brightened, sunshine filling the windows once more. Éowyn hurried to Théoden's side, taking his arm as he stepped clumsily down the dais steps. “Let me help you, Uncle,” she whispered, afraid he would pull away from her again.

He glanced down at her, seemed really to see her for the first time that day. “Thank you, Éowyn,” he murmured, reaching over to pat her hands. Warmth flooded through her, the closest thing to happiness she'd felt in days.

Together they took the long walk to the doors. Gandalf's companions had reached them first, and they stood waiting. The dwarf nodded as he caught her eye, a gallant smile on his lips. Éowyn smiled back, and was surprised when the dwarf looked up at the elf, seeming to share her greeting with him. He seemed shyer, but he returned the smile, his eyes dark and quick. Perhaps they were kind as well as exotic, these companions of Gandalf. She realized she knew next-to nothing of the world outside of Rohan – certainly nothing of elves and dwarves and why they might join a wizard in his duty.

And then the doors were open, the light streaming in and the air smelling at long last of springtime. Gandalf addressed her kindly, promising to attend her uncle. She looked helplessly at Théoden, surprised that she would be excluded.

The old king took both her hands in his and squeezed. “Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter,” he said softly. His eyes shone blue with love and hope. “The time for fear is past.”

It was with reluctance that Éowyn turned to go back inside. Her uncle seemed returned to himself, and if he wished to trust the wizard, then who was she to doubt him? Yet she paused in the doorway, half afraid of letting the door close between them. She turned back.

And there he was; Éowyn's heart quickened. In the full glow of morning, he was wondrous to behold. The ranger stood tall and proud, strapping his sword-belt around his narrow hips, his dark hair falling over one eye. He was masculine and strong – kingly. He looked at her, and for a long moment, neither moved.

She saw his lips part, his breath exhaling shortly, and she knew he found her desirable.

 _Éowyn has become a beautiful woman,_ her cousin had said. Théodred.

She spun and ran inside, unable to look at this glorious man, this king, this Aragorn, for even another moment. As the heavy door closed between them, Éowyn tried to calm her breathing. It was a betrayal, this feeling.

Even so, her heart sang.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf has just broken Saruman's spell over King Theoden, and as they prepare for war, Eowyn finds that her responsibilities as the king's niece are not what she would wish. She dutifully leads her people to safety at Dunharrow, but at what cost to herself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter is so late coming. At first I was going to blame the Gigolas Big Bang for my lack of updates (four months of that certainly left this on the back burner) but clearly I've had some time since then and am only now posting. Life has a way of getting in the way, but I still have every intention of finishing this fic. I promise the next chapter will arrive much more quickly, so please don't abandon me yet! :)

The morning that had so recently seemed to stretch, endless, before her was unexpectedly devoured in a flurry of activity. There were suddenly guests to feed, an urgent need for haste, and Éowyn found herself in the kitchen, her sleeves cuffed to the elbows and sweat rolling down the back of her neck as she loaded hot rolls onto a platter. Her mind roiled, trying to make sense of all she'd just witnessed, all she'd heard.

“The king is truly recovered?” one of the kitchen girls asked another. “And Wormtongue expelled from Edoras?” She made no attempt to lower her voice, curiosity overcoming any impulse toward discretion.

Her companion spoke just as freely. “It is the wizard's doing,” The woman said dismissively, carelessly gesturing with the knife she was using to chop vegetables. “And that's all I will say on the matter.” Éowyn wasn't surprised by her skepticism; mistrust for wizards ran deep in Rohan, so punished had they all been by Saruman. 

“But,” the younger girl shook her head, “the king has restored Éomer and they are riding together into battle,” she insisted. “Surely this is a good thing?”

“Wizards keep their own counsel,” the other warned. “Who's to say what will become of King Théoden or any of us after we are no longer useful to him?”

Only hours before, Éowyn would have heartily agreed, but she'd seen the change in her uncle with her own eyes. After being dismissed from council with the strangers, shut inside while they met in the open air of the terrace, she'd lingered behind those oak doors, unable to hear any of what was said without and yet unable to bear the heavy silence within. Gríma's body had lain prone before the dais, those present either not caring or too fearful to find out if he yet lived. Éowyn herself barely spared him a glance, her attention singularly focused on what was happening outside.

It took only moments for her to realize that she was unwilling to abandon her uncle to the whims of these strangers, so she left the Hall through another door and circled back. She found her uncle seated on the guardsmen's stone bench, the wizard, supplicant, at his feet. Éadric had been banished to the foot of the steep staircase and Háma was nowhere to be seen, leaving Théoden alone with the travelers. Éowyn was careful to keep out of sight of both the king and Gandalf, but saw to her chagrin that the sharp eyes or ears of the elf had noted her approach. He assessed her coolly, then something nearly a smile brightened his eyes. He nodded slowly, then his gaze slid away from her, leaving her unrevealed.

“Gondor and Rohan do not stand alone,” Gandalf was saying. “The enemy is strong beyond our reckoning, yet we have a hope at which he has not guessed.” He leaned close to explain to the king what such a hope might entail. Éowyn heard none of it, but she watched the light return to her uncle's face. Still he was ragged in beard and garment, but his posture and bearing were slowly regaining their regal air. His eyes were clear and blue once more.

Whatever hope the wizard confided, Théoden clearly believed in it. Watching him, Éowyn felt some echo of that hope lapping against her, tempting her. But it was not until the king stood, no longer sloped but at his full height, his back straight and strong, that the last of her doubt fell away. Her heart sang with gladness. Stormcrow or no, Éowyn would never again mistrust this wizard who had returned a thing so precious to her.

The king and the wizard looked to the east, where a gloom hung over the horizon. Following their gaze, Éowyn realized that she had long-ago stopped looking in that direction – whether by sorcery or the weakness of her human heart, she had somehow forgotten to check the progress of that darkness, which had steadily grown in the east for long years now. Now that she noted it once more, the east inspired a chill that had nothing to do with the lingering wintertime.

Something evil lurked there – something thick and powerful and far darker than she remembered it being. Her eyes dropped to the stone, unable to gaze too long at the stormy black clouds. 

“Verily,” Gandalf trumpeted, “that way lies our hope, where sits our greatest fear.”

Éowyn knew nothing of this hope, but watched Gandalf's fellows as they, too, gazed eastward. All looked grim, Aragorn not the least. She wondered what he was thinking of, what they all knew that she could not. Whatever hope the wizard referenced, it seemed a small one, based on the troubled sadness on the ranger's face. And yet it was all that they had, it seemed, against so much darkness.

“Alas!” her uncle cried, sitting gingerly back on his stone seat, “that these evil days should be mine.” He looked glanced back toward the Hall – or past it, thinking of the pyre that yet smoldered behind – “The young perish and the old linger, withering.”

A soft scuff of footsteps on stone pulled Éowyn, aching, from her king. Háma had returned. Éowyn felt a surge of relief to see that it was Éomer who stood tall and proud beside him. Without his armor or even the colors of his erod, he looked younger, more than ever the boy she'd grown up next to. She watched him gaze silently at their uncle, his emotions unclear to her.

Suddenly he knelt, his movement at last catching the attention of the king. “Take this, dear lord!” he cried, offering the hilt of his own sword. His head bowed low, his long hair sweeping the stone beneath. “It was ever at your service.”

Théoden stood, once more erect and powerful. He looked down at Éomer, who did not move, save to meet his uncle's eyes. Háma gasped at the change wrought in his king, wonderment in his face as he glanced from Théoden to Gandalf and back again.

But the king made no move to take the sword from his nephew. Éowyn's heart clenched in her chest. She willed her uncle to take it, to accept her brother back into his trust once more. She had no idea why Háma had seen fit to free him, but it seemed no one was surprised by it, at least, and so she was glad. “Accept him, Uncle,” she whispered, nearly silent. The elf started, but no one else seemed to hear.

Gandalf spoke, his voice surprisingly kind. “Will you not take the sword?”

Éowyn held her breath. Her brother did not move as slowly – so slowly – their uncle's long fingers reached for the hilt. They did not tremble as they grasped the weapon. They did not falter. Only when the king had taken the sword and was holding it up did Éowyn see Éomer release his own breath in a shuddering sigh. 

“Arise now, arise Riders of Théoden!” the king called in a voice as strong as it ever had been. 

Voices answered, both in the native speech and in Westron. Éadric bounded up the stairs, followed by others of the king's guard. As many as were in earshot, it seemed. Éowyn breathed hard as they, as one, lay their swords at her uncle's feet and renewed their pledges to follow this king they had loved and despaired over. “Command us!” Háma cried, his fist thumping his heart.

How she longed to be of their tribe, to have a sword to lay before her king, an oath to keep and a battle to face in his name.

“Be thou well, Théoden,” Éomer murmured in the old Rohirric. His smile was radiant, and for a long moment they gazed at one another, both seeming to see much more than king and vassal. 

Éowyn slipped away soon after that exchange, having heard enough to realize that things were about to change in Edoras. She would be needed in the hall – a meal was to be served and a guest-house to be prepared. Her duty was not to fight alongside her king, after all, but to see to the comforts of his household. It was a bitter pill, but one she swallowed for love of Théoden. 

As she went, a cry rose up from the king's men, accompanied by the cacophony of weapons and shields crashing together: “The Lord of the Mark will ride! Forth, Eorlingas!”

#####

The women of Edoras were fierce. They were nothing like the delicate heroines of Gondorian romances – such shrinking violets simply did not thrive in the rocky soil of Rohan – but neither were they trained fighters. Éowyn was painfully aware of this as she guided her long caravan between the craggy walls of the White Mountains. Even in a group that numbered in the hundreds, there were barely more than two-score swords between them, most in untrained hands. 

She was perched on Hoarfrost's high back, surveying the surrounding valley as the stream of refugees trudged past. They were mostly women and children – most able men, including boys past their eleventh year, had been called to fight alongside their king. Up until the afternoon before, Éowyn would not have included her uncle in the lists of the able-bodied, but whether due to Gandalf's magic or the removal of Saruman's, Théoden was much more his old self. He was determined to lead his men into battle despite protests from the old wizard himself.

Éowyn knew how her uncle must feel. Self-preservation was not in their blood. Not if it meant turning their backs on duty. But duty was a bitter mistress – Éowyn would rather have ridden to death in battle than this. It was not that she felt the job was beneath her – the innocent of Edoras needed someone strong to see them to Dunharrow, someone to lead in her uncle's place – but she could not help but wish there had been someone else who could do it.

She had been Háma's suggestion – a ruler from the House of Eorl that did not steal a warrior from their cause. Fearless, he had called her. And high-hearted. She had held her breath, at once hoping to be trusted by her uncle and yet longing to ride into battle with him, just another warrior supporting her king.

But her king had entrusted her this – a far more precious mission, if less satisfying. He had given her armor and the sword she now carried, its sheath strapped across her back. Théoden had never before presented her with arms. He'd let her run wild like a boy, but his gifts were those of a man spoiling a treasured daughter. Scents, he'd given her, dresses and poppets and a finely carved comb for her hair. This sword, this mail corslet – they were more dear to her than the rest combined.

Hoarfrost stamped, impatient. The valley was narrow – a steep, rocky wall to one side and the swiftly-flowing Snowbourn on the other. Orcs and wild men could easily ambush – a few archers could decimate their party with ease. It was not until they reached Dunharrow, with its small but well-trained contingent of warriors and its long history of being siege-proof, that they would be safe. Éowyn scanned the mountain cliffs, peering into the darkening gloom for any sign of life or movement. She saw nothing. She soothed her horse with soft words and looked out over the people. Her people.

They were tired. Most had no horses and carried what they could on their backs and shoulders. Mothers and older siblings held onto the little ones, who, heartrendingly, were mostly still, worn down from the hours of crying that had come before. No one spoke without necessity, it seemed. Éowyn was struck by how silent the procession had become, the rustle of clothing and shuffle of feet filling the air instead of voices. The sun had already dipped below the mountains to their west. They had left Edoras in mid-afternoon the day before, and yet, even after another whole day's walk, they would not get to the Hold of Dunharrow until after full dark. Most refugees knew to conserve their fuel, so even in the dim blue of the twilight, few families had torches or lanterns lit.

The procession had grown as they passed the hamlets of Upbourn and Underharrow. Captain Dúnhere had ridden ahead and had already begun the muster of the Rohirrim in Harrowdale. As the village men headed back to gather in Edoras, many of the women joined Éowyn and her refugees as they trudged south and up – always up! – toward Dunharrow. 

The hold was prepared – long had Rohan known that such a day would likely come, and so had they stored caches of oil and bandages and what foodstuffs that would not spoil in the cool crags of the mountain. Éowyn gazed at the mass of refugees – a city, emptied – and wondered how long their supplies would need to last. 

As far as she knew, her uncle rode toward the Fords of Isen, hoping to put an end to Saruman's push with an attack of his own. But if they were routed – it was always in her mind that even Théodred had not managed to hold his position there – they would fall back to Helm's Deep.

In the past, men of the Mark had held the Hornburg for long weeks of constant siege. Éowyn calculated that Dunharrow's stores of food and oil would last less than twenty days – thirty if she added that which the refugees carried themselves. With those estimates, she fervently hoped that the men who fought would not need to seek shelter at Helm's Deep, or if they did, that Saruman's forces were defeated quickly. Barring that, it was possible that Saruman's attention would be so focused on the fortress that she could safely send out scavengers to gather supplies from the abandoned farms and villages nearest Dunharrow.

She was considering the plausibility of such scavenging missions when a cry pulled her from her thoughts. “Lady Éowyn!” The voice called again. It took Éowyn a moment to locate the speaker. A woman in breeches and a chain-mail shirt waved to get her attention, her own gaze on someone that Éowyn could not see for the mass of bodies between them. The woman looked up and met her eyes. “We need help over here!” she called.

Murmuring a word to Hoarfrost, Éowyn slid from his back. She bid him to stay and headed up the trail. To her surprise, she was recognized by nearly every person she encountered – people were eager to pause for her, to clear a path as she made her way against the flow. “My lady,” she heard again and again as people paused to let her pass.

The woman in mail met her halfway, grasping her arm and leading her the rest of the way. “There is a pregnant woman,” she explained, urgency making her words short. “She cannot walk any farther.”

Of course. It would be strange if there weren't many more in the same condition. Éowyn chastised herself for not thinking of it sooner, for not making special provision for those who were impaired. “Is she near her time?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “I do not know. She doesn't seem far along.”

In some ways that sounded more dangerous. A hike like this, before the baby was secure in the womb – Éowyn wondered how she might even begin to find a midwife. She had no experience with such things, and yet the responsibility was now hers.

The crowd continued past, and Éowyn saw a slender form leaning against a stunted tree near the riverbank. She held her cloak wrapped close, concealing her pregnancy. “Are you all right?” Éowyn asked as she hurried near.

The woman looked up, and Éowyn's breath caught in her throat. It was the girl from Théodred's funeral. The crying girl. Up close, Éowyn could see that she had guessed right about her age – she looked like she'd not yet seen twenty years.

The funeral. Had it really been only the day before? It felt like a lifetime ago. 

The girl tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “I am sorry to be a nuisance, Lady,” she said, her voice low. “I thought a rest would be enough, but –” A pang of something surged through her, and she gritted her teeth.

Éowyn knew next to nothing about pregnancy, but it was clear that this woman should not be walking. “Does your family have a cart? A horse?”

She shook her head, her cheeks two splashes of scarlet on skin too pale. “I am alone.”

Where was this woman's family? Her husband was undoubtedly headed to battle, but surely she had a mother, a sister. Someone. Éowyn's surprise must have shown on her face, because the girl continued. “I have only just come to Edoras to be with my–” she faltered for barely a moment. “My husband. My parents are in Mering.”

Éowyn had never heard of a village called Mering, but she assumed it was on the eastern border, named for the river that marked the boundary between Rohan and Gondor. It seemed a terribly long way. Éowyn thought it must be lonely to be so far from her family, particularly now that her husband had ridden to war.

“I will stay with you, then,” Éowyn promised, giving the girl's shoulder a quick squeeze. “What is your name? And I suppose I should know when the babe is due.”

“I am called Edythe,” the girl said. “And I think the child will come in summer. July, perhaps?” She sounded uncertain. “I have not yet seen a midwife,” she added guiltily, her gaze dropping to the earth.

Another thing to add to the growing list of things Éowyn needed to manage once they got to Dunharrow – get this girl to a midwife or a healer to ensure that the child was still well after such a climb. “We will see to that in time,” she said briskly, finding it difficult to keep efficiency and kindness balanced in her tone. “But first we must get you off of your feet.”

At that moment, the woman in the mail – Éowyn had not noticed her leave – returned, breathless from hurrying. “I have found a cart, my lady.” 

The cart's owner, a middle-aged woman with two coltish daughters in tow, followed close behind, her expression a mixture of irritation and curiosity. “It's already a heavy load,” she protested. “I cannot haul my things and this girl besides.” She glanced at Edythe and then suspiciously back at Éowyn. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but you can't mean for me to leave my belongings by the side of the road?”

Éowyn closed her eyes. For a long moment, she had no ideas at all. The cart was packed full – they would have to unload half of it just to make a space for Edythe to lie. It was too much to carry, even if Éowyn found people willing to try. 

From his outcropping overlooking the path, Hoarfrost whinnied impatiently. Of course. “My horse,” she said, waving her arm in his direction. “He will carry your things!”

It was settled quickly, and several others stopped to help the women as they unpacked the cart and bundled the goods securely onto Hoarfrost's back. Éowyn was pleased to see that he was not too proud play beast of burden. She smoothed a hand down his silky face. “Thank you,” she whispered, relieved that the situation had been so easily handled. 

“But you will have to walk, Lady Éowyn,” Edythe protested weakly as Éowyn helped her into a nest of blankets that had been made on the cart. “It does not seem right, you being the niece of the king.”

Éowyn waved away her concern. “Am I not a refugee the same as you?” she asked. “Fleeing my home from the same dark enemy? No matter what families we were born to, we must work together.”

The woman in mail – Adel, she said her name was – braced against the long poles of the cart and began to pull. “We may not be allowed to fight alongside the men,” she said, “but we certainly must do all we can to protect the families they defend. I'm sure the father of your babe will not mind the Lady walking for your sake.”

Edythe turned her gaze away. “He is dead,” she said softly. The words were half breath and sorrow; Éowyn didn't quite know how she heard them at all.

“The Fords of Isen?” Adel asked, her rough voice softened. She glanced back at the girl in the cart, her gaze full of pity and concern.

“Yes.” Edythe nodded, one hand unconsciously sliding beneath her cloak to the small rise in her belly. Her eyes glazed with tears, but she did not cry.

Éowyn swallowed hard. She did not know that she would be so brave in Edythe's position. She did not know how she had managed to get even as far as she had. With a baby growing inside her, alone without family or friends – the news about her husband's death would have been the final blow for Éowyn. But Edythe had found the fortitude to pack up her few belongings and trudge for hours up the steep hills. And now, beneath the kindness of strangers – when even the sturdiest resolve often melted – she did not cry.

She had envied Edythe's tears at Théodred's funeral; Éowyn's own heart had longed to cry like that but her pride refused to allow it. She realized now that Edythe hadn't lacked strength or pride – it was honesty that brought her pain to the surface. Honesty that Éowyn lacked, it seemed.

For a long time they walked along in silence, Adel pulling Edythe in the cart and Éowyn leading Hoarfrost, one hand on his ornate leather bridle. She tried to imagine what it must've been like for the girl to find her husband's name on the lists of the dead. Worse than it felt, she wondered, when she caught that look on Hrodgar's face as he tried to tell her uncle about Théodred? She could not imagine that it could it have wounded her more, but what if Théodred had been her lover? Her husband sworn?

And then Éowyn realized. They had not yet had lists of casualties from that battle. Hrodgar had come specifically to bring Théodred home, not to post lists of the dead. Unless one of his entourage had personally known Edythe's husband, unless he had sought her out with the news, she would not yet know.

Assuming that the father of Edythe's baby was not Théodred himself.

Hoarfrost nudged against Éowyn's hair and she realized that she had stopped walking. Stopped breathing. She glanced back to where Edythe lay in the cart, seeing her wince as Adel took her over a bumpy outcropping of rock. Éowyn closed her eyes for a long moment, forcing a shaky breath from her lungs. She could not let a suspicion – not even that, really, just an idea – keep her from her duty. She curled her fingers more firmly around Hoarfrost's reins and continued up the mountain.

#####

The first of the Púkel-men was spotted near the end of Harrowdale, the stone man looking like a frozen goblin in the flicker of their torches. Éowyn was chilled when she looked into its deep-carved eyes, ancient and watchful. More and more were seen as they continued on until, hours later, after they had climbed the steep and winding Stair of the Hold and made camp on the Firienfeld – the high plain of Dunharrow – Éowyn finally rested beneath their steady gazes.

It was near midnight. Stars gleamed sharp and cold in the sky. Tomorrow she would oversee the arrangement of the camp, but for now it was first come, first served. Some families claimed the wood-framed canvas booths that the soldiers had prepared when word of the evacuation had reached the Hold, others slept in makeshift tents or huddled together in the backs of carts. They kept close to the western edge of the Hold, not wishing to venture too far to the east for fear of the Dark Door on the far side of the Dimholt, of what might yet linger there.

Adel had invited Edythe to stay with her, and while Éowyn searched for a midwife for the girl, the older woman made short work of putting up her own booth and preparing a place for the girl to sleep. Then, while the healer saw to Edythe, Éowyn and Adel gathered wood for their campfires, chopping up the scrubby mountain brush that grew close against the rocky embankments. In the morning there would be more formal work assignments to make, but that night each family saw to their own needs. 

Éowyn liked it that way.

When she finally collapsed beside her own fire, Éowyn's feet throbbed and her back ached. Milthryd had brought some of the ladies from Meduseld's house staff to her, but Éowyn sent them away. She would not be waited on like a princess while others endured hardship. Most had their own families to attend to anyway.

She had a meager meal of bread and dried meat, her only luxury being tea that she steeped in a pot heated over her small fire. Her sword lay in its sheath beside her and Hoarfrost grazed the damp grass nearby, his breath a comforting _whuff_ in the darkness. This was the life of a soldier, she realized. This was how Éomer lived that past week while pursuing the orc raiders, the way Théodred's men camped during their long-range scouts of the countryside. She hadn't thought it would be so lonely. 

She thought of Lord Aragorn, of his strange companions. He, too, must sleep on the ground, living only with what he could carry on his back, but she couldn't imagine that he was lonely. The three of them moved as a unit, as friends long used to communicating with no more than a look or a gesture. And at the dining table they'd spoken of their former companions – Boromir of Gondor and the holbytlan from the west – with such affection. Could there be loneliness where there was love? 

An intense feeling welled up inside her. He was the most noble man she had ever seen; surely all who met him came to love him. She had known him only hours – through one meal and march preparations – and yet she found he stirred something deep inside her. She'd wanted to lay her sword at his feet, to pledge herself not as his vassal, for she could never turn her back on her uncle and his kingdom, but as something else, something she did not recognize and could not name.

And he had noticed her. In the words he spoke, there was nothing but courtesy, but his glances were heavy with heat. His desire was clear in every look, even more in the way he tried to stop himself from looking. 

Éowyn had seen that look before. A woman could not live among men as she did without learning to recognize a lustful gaze. None but Gríma had dared try to claim her, but it seemed to her that Aragorn's restraint came not from fear, or even respect for her uncle – he was higher born than even Théoden, after all. No, Aragorn clearly had a purpose, a duty to attend to before he could allow himself to indulge in such things. 

She wondered if he would think of her when he came to the end of it.

A flush that did not come from the close proximity of the campfire heated her cheeks. He was the fated King of Gondor. She was sister-daughter to the King of Rohan. It was not impossible.

She dreamed that night of lights in the darkness, of battle-rough hands in her hair and the scratch of stubble across her skin. She woke up warm despite the frost on the grass and the dying embers of her fire. His name was in her head as she washed and broke her fast. _Aragorn._

But then she looked out over the camp, at the families who would look to her for leadership and support. Éowyn put her fantasies aside. There was work to be done.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn reaches Dunharrow and is determined to pass through the Paths of the Dead. Eowyn objects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is the tendency for stories like this, Tolkien's dialogue has been used. In this chapter, it has been used extensively.

Snow fell over Dunharrow, and Éowyn, like every other refugee in the camp, huddled near her cook fire, a blanket thrown about her shoulders. The thick flurry came down gently with little wind, and for that she was grateful, but she worried about the lack of visibility for the lookouts she'd posted at the cliff's edge and at key points in the valley below. Sound had been muffled, so that a horse's whinny or the pounding of hoof beats could be lost in the whitewashed world of snow.

It had been four days since they'd established camp, and already the running of it had fallen into routine. Each day, children were enlisted to spread straw on the damp earth between the tents to soak up the mud and give purchase to carts and boots. A rotating roster of volunteers worked filling earthen jugs with fresh water from the river below and then hauling it back up the steep cliff and dispersing it fairly between the families. It was difficult work, even with the help of the horses, but done stoutly and usually without complaint.

Éowyn left herself in charge of preparing for King Théoden's arrival. At Edoras he had been far from certain of his return from battle, but she could not do otherwise but trust in her brother to keep him safe. She would not lose him now – would not even think of it – and so she prepared as though she'd had news of his imminent arrival.

So the king's pavilion was erected even before a small band of Riders arrived with news that the king had survived a great battle at the Hornburg. The news was delivered in haste, as the men were needed in Edoras for the muster, and it left Éowyn relieved and yet full of questions. Had they been routed at the Fords of Isen? If not, how else had it come to be that they were at Helm's Deep? Had there been many casualties? The messengers had assured her that Éomer, too, had come through unscathed, and she was grateful, but Éowyn longed for information about the battle and about Aragorn.

Lacking real information, it was only a few hours before strange rumors began to circulate: whispers of orcs in impossible numbers, of devouring trees and dark magics. Gandalf's name was spoken with awe and mistrust, and even the presence of an elf and dwarf in Meduseld was seen as a grim omen.

Gandalf and her uncle had left straightaway for Isengard, it seemed, to confront Saruman in his tower. Éowyn longed to be there herself, to witness what fury passed between wizards on opposite sides of a war. She wondered if Aragorn had gone with them, and what part he meant to take in all of this. She wondered how much was done for duty and how much for friendship – his love of the holbytlan had driven him far from his original course, it seemed. Was he fighting by Théoden's side merely because it was his duty, or was there some other reason – some other love? – that pitched his loyalty toward her uncle?

Éowyn soon became cross from wondering and decided to put such thoughts away. Like as not, she would never see Aragorn again. The muster was at Edoras, after all, and she had been banished to Dunharrow. But there was little to do while the snow fell. She thought she might walk about the camp, see if there were needs she could meet among her people, but she found herself idling near her fire, uneager to move.

Boys played at war games among the ancient standing stones that led eastward toward the black shadow of the Dwimorberg. They were careful not to go too far in that direction, unconsciously correcting when their games strayed more than a few paces toward that still darkness. Snowballs were flung with real war cries, and more than a few of the smaller boys had stick horses and wooden shields.

She'd had a small crew of helpers when she put up the king's pavilion, mostly boys who complained that their friends had been allowed to fight at the Hornburg while they were forced to stay behind with their mothers. Éowyn agreed with their logic – the difference between ten and eleven was a small thing, after all – but she regretted not that these boys had to stay but rather that their companions had been asked to fight.

Rohan was not as it was in the songs. Gríma Wormtongue may have been a villain, but his observation was nonetheless true. The Kings of the Riddermark of legend would not have asked tender-aged boys to fight alongside men. They would not have had to.

“Would you like some water, princess?” Adel stooped beneath the low awning of her tent, a bucket and dipper full of water in her hands. She was no longer dressed in mail and she had a blanket tied around her for warmth.

Éowyn drank gratefully. “I'm not a princess,” she protested belatedly. It seemed she'd heard the word more in the past week than she had her entire life.

Adel smiled. “To the men and women of the Mark, you are that and more, my lady. Though most are pleased to hear that your brother is to be the king's heir, many have said that it is a pity that such a plan means you will not be queen.” She looked thoughtful. “I know I am not alone in my surprise that a match was not made between you and Prince Théodred.”

Éowyn's dismay must have shown on her face, for Adel's expression faltered. “I beg pardon, my lady,” she said in a rush. “It is not my place to speculate, and he is too soon gone, besides. I did not mean disrespect.”

“I, too, was surprised,” Éowyn found herself answering, and though she was surprised to hear the confession in her own voice, it was refreshing to speak so frankly. She had never given voice to her feelings for Théodred – asking Éomer of their cousin's intentions was the closest she'd dared come. “It was always my hope.” Her voice trembled, almost breaking on the last word. Then, to her complete dismay, a tear rolled down her cheek. After that came another, and another, and she knew they would not stop, though she desperately wished otherwise. She looked away, swiped at her face with a gloved hand. “Forgive me,” she whispered, mortified.

Éowyn did not know what she had expected – some form of embarrassed courtesy, most likely. Perhaps that Adel would mutter some apology and make herself scarce, too uncomfortable to stay as Éowyn pulled herself together once more. But when the older women knelt on the damp earth and swept her into her arms, cradling Éowyn's head on her shoulder as though she were no more than a child, it was immediately clear to Éowyn that this was what she had longed for. She did not pull away, even as the tears came in earnest. She relaxed into the embrace and let this woman – little more than a stranger, really – hold her as she cried. 

Though it had been over sixteen years since her mother died, and though Adel's voice in her ear was nothing like her memories, the softness of her body and her warmth were comfortingly familiar. When she was a girl, her nurses and maids would often, out of fondness, pet her hair or squeeze her into a hug, but such contact was brief. As soon as Éowyn showed any eagerness for such affection, the women recalled their station – and her station – and busied themselves elsewhere. And much too soon, Éowyn was deemed too old to be petted and fussed over at all.

“I am so sorry,” Éowyn said at last, taking a pulling away from Adel. Long minutes had passed and her tears were finally slowing. She yanked off a glove and scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “It has been a long time since–” but she found she could not admit how long it had been since she'd been held with such affection. “I have spoken to no one about my cousin,” she said instead, just as true, but easier to admit.

The older woman looked at her with gentle sympathy. “It is not easy for a girl, having only men for family,” she said, understanding, it seemed, even what Éowyn did not say. “But I find that I am not so sorry that I misspoke. Holding in such grief is never wise.” She reached out to smooth a stray lock of Éowyn's hair back into place. 

“Do you have any children?” Éowyn asked. The question embarrassed her; it was too direct and revealed too much of what was on her mind. “I mean, if you do not mind speaking of it,” she amended. 

Adel's smile was wistful as she shook her head. “No children. No man,” she said ruefully. “There could have been someone, long ago, but he is gone and I have had a full life despite it.”

“Were you never lonely?” Éowyn blurted, thinking of Théodred. Of Aragorn.

“Of course!” Adel's laugh was young and merry. “But comfort is not companionship – and it certainly isn't love. A woman must learn the difference if she is to spend her life unwed.” 

Was it meant as advice? Éowyn wondered once more if her chance for love – her chance for matrimony and motherhood and a normal life – was behind her. Could this woman see her ineptitude for such things? 

Adel laughed again. “Don't confuse the situation, girl,” she said with mock sternness, and Éowyn loved the casual equality in her tone. “I was not speaking of you, yet so young and lovely. Your cousin is gone, but you were not bound to him. Another chance will come for you. Probably many chances.”

Éowyn's mind once more conjured the image of Aragorn's grim and lined face. He was nothing like Théodred – as dark as her cousin was golden and stern where Théodred had been merry – but they shared an intoxicating quality that she could not define. “Is it enough?” she asked in a slow voice. “Is it enough to be young and lovely while the world is at war and men's thoughts are on crowns and battle?”

Adel's gaze was shrewd. “Youth and beauty can turn a man's head even more in wartime,” she said carefully. “But you will not wed a man who sees only these things in you, I think. You are fierce, my lady, and strong. You are intelligent. The man who wins you will see all that. He'll be wanting much more than a pretty lass to warm his bed.” She lifted Éowyn's chin with her fingers, gazing into her eyes with a firm expression. “And don't you forget that. You are the granddaughter of a king; accept no less.”

Éowyn's heart thudded in her chest. Could she know? Could Adel somehow see her feelings for Aragorn, and if she could, was she saying that Aragorn was not worthy, or that she should hold out for him because he was the one man who was? She remembered how his smile had faltered as he looked down at her before drinking to Théoden's health at Meduseld. His gaze, steely grey and sharp, had turned sober as he beheld her, his expression unreadable. Something was between them – she was certain that he felt it too – but she could not know what he saw when he looked at her, only that her heart had swelled at what she'd seen in him.

#####

To Éowyn's surprise and delight, Aragorn arrived the very next day with a small company of Northmen – grey and grim and riding shaggy horses, unbeautiful, but strong. They had been spotted some hours out, and by the time they reached the Hold, night had fallen.

Éowyn took up a lantern and met them at the cliff's edge. The Dúnedain were impressive – mighty and serious, warriors to their very cores. The elf and dwarf were, as always, close beside Aragorn; they greeted her from atop their shared mount, Gimli's eyes merry beneath a dirty bandage that bound his brow. And the sons of Elrond, as dark and strong as their fellows but fair of face and step, bowed deeply, their courtesy strange but not mocking. She greeted them all, but was distracted by the over-awing presence of Aragorn.

“My lady,” Aragorn said, nodding his head respectfully. “King Théoden and Éomer are in good health, no more than two days behind us.”

“It brings me joy to hear it,” she told him. “I had not thought he would come to me here.” Éowyn had feared that Théoden would go directly back to Edoras, forgetting her entirely in favor of his muster and his war.

Aragorn smiled. “I do not think he would abandon you here without necessity,” he told her. “Your uncle cares deeply for you, my lady.”

“As does your brother,” Gimli the Dwarf added with a bushy grin. “He boasted of your skill with horse and sword even as he demonstrated his own against the orcs of Isengard.”

“Come,” Éowyn said, smiling at the news as well as the company. “I can offer you food and lodging, and your horses will be cared for.” Already some of the older boys hovered nearby, eager to get their hands upon the strange warhorses of the Dúnedain. She could not blame them – she herself would have done the same, had the situation been different.

Once the horses had been surrendered, they made their way to the king's pavilion. “We do not need so much,” Aragorn had protested when she invited them inside. “A fire and a bite to eat will suffice.” 

Éowyn laughed. “Are you not yourself destined to become King of Gondor? Then you will be our liege lord and deserve this much and better,” she insisted. When he still hesitated, she tipped her head at him and tried again, gently as though he were a reluctant foal. “Please,” she entreated, “there is food and space enough for all your men, and it is warmer inside.”

Aragorn softened. His eyes sparkled and the hint of a smile altered his grim visage. “Very well,” he said, brushing snowflakes from his hair. “It will be good, for a time, to be out of the snow.” 

Within, a huge oak table – carted to the Hold by Eorlingas who had accompanied the household to Dunharrow before returning for the muster – was laid with roasted game and potatoes. It was a poor feast for war heroes, but Aragorn and his men ate gladly. Legolas beamed when she poured from a bottle of wine made from grapes grown on the high plains of the West Emnet. “I was surprised by this before, at Edoras,” he said, taking a sip. “I surely did not expect such luxury here.”

“Enjoy it while you can, my friend,” Gimli told him. “For I cannot guess when you will see its like again.”

After filling Aragorn's goblet, Éowyn lingered by his side for a moment longer than necessary. “It is the least I can do,” she said truthfully. “Without you and your wizard, Edoras would have surely fallen, the house of Eorl along with it!”

“These are dark times, that a house such as yours could fall under so evil an attack,” Aragorn said. “And a testament to your bloodline that it was able to hold out for as long as it did.”

Éowyn didn't want to think about how near they had come to disaster. Her family's endurance, so praised by Aragorn, had been nothing at all in the face of such dark magics. She herself had stood, trembling upon the precipice of Wormtongue's will – Saruman's will – until Éomer had rescued her. And then Gandalf had similarly rescued Théoden. It was no recommendation at all to her people, she thought, that they held such a helpless family as their liege lords.

“Let us say no more of grim might-have-beens,” Éowyn decided, taking a seat across the table from Aragorn and filling her own trencher with potatoes and a sliver of meat. “I wish to hear all about the battle you have just seen. Such rumors have trickled down to us, of wizard's fire and devouring trees! Surely you can tell a more likely tale!”

“I'm afraid we cannot,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “It was a strange battle, and strange things occurred.”

“But we will tell what we have seen, and you will have to choose whether or not to believe,” Gimli added.

Éowyn met Aragorn's eyes, and a smile seemed to twinkle there. Her chest tightened and excitement thrummed in her veins. “Then tell your tale,” she answered Gimli, though her gaze did not leave Aragorn's. “What I have heard cannot be possible; you must make me believe.”

#####

An hour or more later the tale had been told and the food eaten and Éowyn stood. It was well past moonrise and the need for sleep was growing obvious on their faces. “Lords, you are weary,” she said. There was little enough to offer for guests of their stature, but she would not see them bed down on the ground like common soldiers. She'd arranged for sleeping booths to be prepared for Aragorn and his men – it would be a tight fit, but better than tents on a night like that. “Tomorrow fairer housing shall be found for you.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Nay, lady, be not troubled for us! If we may lie here tonight and break our fast tomorrow, it will be enough. For I ride on an errand most urgent, and with the first light of morning we must go.”

Heat rushed into her face. If he had not meant to stay, then why had he come? Dunharrow was far from any road, certainly any leading east, where surely they were headed. She was about to ask, when a thought occurred to her. Perhaps he had come to see her? Had she occupied as many of his thoughts as he had hers?

She searched his face – he was weary, to be sure, and as stern as he ever was, but there was kindness there as well, and something else. Something that dark and sweet that made her flush with sudden heat.

“Then it was kindly done, lord,” she told him, her voice unaccountably merry to her own ears, “to ride so many miles out of your way to bring tidings to Éowyn, and to speak with her in her exile.” She reached out and took his hand. He started at her touch, and then his fingers slowly curled around hers. For a moment he simply gazed at her. She met his eyes and did not waver, even as she realized that the warmth in them was steeped with longing.

He smiled then, a slow, sad smile that warmed her to her toes. “Indeed, no man would count such a journey wasted,” he said softly, “and yet, lady, I could not have come hither, if it were not that the road which I must take leads me to Dunharrow.” He withdrew his hand as he spoke, and stepped away from her, the twinkle gone from his eyes.

She blinked at him, for a moment confused and then angry at his lie. No road led to Dunharrow but the one he came by, and that led nowhere else but back the way he came. She did not know why he would say such a thing, why he would suddenly douse the heat that had grown between them. “Then, lord,” she answered stiffly, “You are astray.”

Aragorn shook his head, his expression moving from mere sadness to desolation. “Nay, lady,” he said, his voice all gravel and regret. “There is a road out of this valley, and that road I shall take. Tomorrow I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead.”

Later, she would not remember the words he spoke nor the reasons he'd given, such was her horror at his revelation. The Paths of the Dead were not mere folly, but suicide. None in all of Rohan's history had come back from venturing there – none had so much as attempted it within her lifetime. And this was not some idle time of peace, when a lesser man might be excused for attempting desperate feats in his search for renown; they were at war, and by no means certain of victory.

That he would deprive them of his sword – nay, his sword and those of all his companions – for such madness was impossible even to comprehend. It was reprehensible, unforgivable. His band was small but fierce – any one of them could mean the difference between victory and defeat on a field of battle, Aragorn not the least. To destroy himself was bad enough, but why would his fellows accompany him to their own doom? Why would they allow him to destroy them all – robust and powerful as each man was – by following him without a word of protest?

But none did protest. The grey company grew quiet as Éowyn argued, not one voice rising to decry or even question their captain. She looked to Legolas, to Gimli. They were not men, not concerned with men's wars. She expected them – Gimli at the very least, as he seemed as rational and outspoken as any of her own kinsmen – to take her part, to defend their own lives, but they remained silent. Indeed, Legolas met her eye with pity in his gaze, and Gimli shook his head, wordlessly bidding her to be still.

And still she went, furiously unwilling to move or speak as the company took their leave. Aragorn paused before her, clearly wanting to say more, but she would not look at him. He had made her a fool before his men, answering her obvious flirtation with his suicidal purpose. 

“My lady,” he began softly. She turned her head away, her eyes trained on the fur rugs on the pavilion's floor. He reached out to her but reconsidered, his hand pausing before it landed on her shoulder. Éowyn held her breath for the span of several heartbeats, longing for his touch and yet still angry enough that she wished him gone. He seemed to sense the latter and turned. “Good night,” he murmured as he ducked through the tent's doorway.

A gust of chill wind blew past him, swirling her skirts and moving her hair. Éowyn crossed her arms about her middle and sat close to the fire, shivering with more than just the cold. As she had hoped, Aragorn had returned to her side, but only, it seemed, because madness led him. She wondered about the dark Dúnedain who now followed him, about the elf and dwarf who were ever at his side. They trusted him. They would follow him into death, it seemed.

There were reasons to choose death over living – glory and renown, for one. The prosperity of your people. Love. Théodred had died for all those things, and also for nothing at all, it seemed, for those who destroyed him were themselves destroyed at Helm's Deep. Now Aragorn would die for his own purposes – there would be no glory, no prosperity in his passing. And love – those who followed him would die for love of him, that much was clear.

Did she not love him, too? 

She had loved Théodred. She'd spent her whole life preparing to be his queen only to suffer the bitter grief and disappointment of losing him. She wondered – as her brother certainly did – if she would have been able to save him, if only she had been there. She had been trained alongside Éomer, after all, and was nearly his equal with sword or halberd. And had she been allowed, she would certainly have stayed near her cousin – no matter the confusion of battle, she knew she would have been close at hand – and perhaps prevented the killing blow.

She knew such speculations were foolish, a waste of time and sentiment, but she'd indulged them many times since learning of Théodred's death. Now she wondered about Aragorn – did his elf and dwarf stay close for that same reason, to fend off the sword or arrow that might otherwise end his life? Or was it simply that they would not be parted from him, even to their deaths?

And would she not be the same, given the chance?

Éowyn stood and reached for her cloak. She would entreat him. She would persuade. If she had to, she would beg. And Aragorn would let her go with him.

The snow had stopped while they'd dined and now the sky was a clear, star-splashed black. She hurried across the camp, to its dark edge closest to the cursed way that held Aragorn's fate – her own fate, she realized with a shudder. Booths and tents were sparser there; Eorlingas were sensible of the danger inside the mountain and kept tight to the cliff's edge. She watched from a distance as Aragorn spoke low to his men, and then as they dispersed into the booths she had provided for them, no doubt eager for the oblivion of sleep. Legolas led the way into the small room he would be sharing with Gimli and Aragorn, the dwarf trudging along behind. Their leader lingered a half-moment more, glancing about to ensure that each of his grey company had safely retired.

“My lord?” Éowyn called to him, stepping forward from behind one of the ancient stones that lined the Dimholt road. Aragorn turned to her. The moon was but one day to full, and in the bright moonshine, Éowyn saw his eyes widen in surprise.

“My lady Éowyn,” he said softly. “I am glad you have come. It grieved me to think that our parting would be bitter.”

Any parting from such a man would be a bitter one, Éowyn thought. “Aragorn,” she began, startled by the sharpness of her voice but unable to dull it. “Why will you go on this deadly road?”

He sighed, a deep, shuddering sound as old and weary as the craggy mountains surrounding them, and Éowyn saw for the first time that he dreaded the path set before him. “Because I must,” he said simply. “I do not choose paths of peril, Éowyn. Were I to go where my heart dwells, far in the North I would now be wandering in the fair valley of Rivendell.”

She did not know anything of that valley, save that it was where Elrond the Halfelven made his home. Was he so fond of elves as to wish to dwell among them? Or had Rivendell been so peaceful and lovely that he dreamed of it yet as he traveled? For a moment Éowyn wondered if there was another reason – a woman, perhaps – but the kitchen girls at Meduseld had quickly determined that he was not married. And the North was nothing but vast, wild land, after all – hardly a likely birthplace for the bride of one destined to rule Gondor.

The expression in Aragorn's eyes grew hazy and distant as he thought back to some wonder in Rivendell. Éowyn found she liked him best in those moments, when his stern demeanor softened and he seemed able to remember some genuine happiness. She hoped she would see him happy again one day, when he no longer had to think first of war and darkness.

But with the Paths of the Dead before him, the chance of any such day was dashed. Éowyn knew better than to again bid him stay; instead she stepped close to him, close enough that she could feel his heat and she knew he could feel hers. She laid her hand on his arm. “Lord,” she said carefully, choosing both her words and her tone to balance her frustration with dignity. “If you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle.”

He did not move away, only gazed down at her, his breath warm against her face. “Your duty is with your people,” he reminded her.

But her heart was with him. She longed to tell him, to recklessly show him, to finally taste some of that passionate heat that the boys she'd grown up with always joked about. One step and she would be pressed against his body. A tilt of the head and a push with her toes would bring her face to his. Kissing distance.

“Too often I have heard of duty,” she cried instead, wishing he would see the warrior in her as well as the woman, desperate for him to accept both. But she suddenly knew, if it came to a choice, she would rather be valued as a fighter than to be loved as Éowyn. “But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shieldmaiden and not a dry-nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?”

Aragorn sighed and reached for her hands. Her eyes flew down to them, watching as his fingers curled around her much smaller palms. She felt herself tremble, and hoped that he would not note it. “Few may do that with honor,” he told her softly, his voice solemn and sad. “Did you not accept the charge to govern the people until their lord's return?” He reminded her of duty surpassing weariness, and she saw that he, too, grew weary of his own charge.

“Shall I always be left behind when the Riders depart, to mind the house while they win renown, and find food and beds when they return?” she asked thickly, mortified at how close she was to tears. It was a bitter question, full of all the misery of being female in a world of men. Even the love of a man such as Aragorn would not sweeten such a fate, she realized.

“A time may come soon when none will return,” he said, “then there will be need of valor without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defense of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”

How did he not understand? It was not praise and renown that she sought, only the right to such. She wanted to be valued for what she could do, not only what she'd been born to. The defense of these refugees – her charges – was not an ignoble duty, but it was not Éomer's duty. Éowyn could not understand why, based solely on a misfortune of birth, she could only wait and defend while he was expected to ride into the face of the danger and meet it head-on.

She yanked her hands from Aragorn's, her anger pushing out any thoughts of tenderness and longing. “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.” 

His eyes widened in surprise and he sought to speak, perhaps to reshape her words into an image less distasteful, but she would not let him. She would not let him twist her reality into a story he could live with. “But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman,” she snapped at him. “I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”

“What do you fear, lady?” he asked, his voice gravel and pitch.

“A cage.” She squared her shoulders. “To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.” Men – kings and farmers alike – sought to protect the women in their world with no consideration at all what their wives and mothers and daughters sought for themselves. “I am no little girl to be told what I may and may not do,” she added fiercely.

Aragorn nearly smiled and she had to quell a childish desire to hurt him for it. “And yet you counseled me not to adventure on the road that I have chosen, because it is perilous?”

“I do not bid you to flee from peril,” she protested, “but to ride to battle where your sword may win renown and victory!” Her anger left her breathless, but when she looked at him, she still felt love. When she spoke again, her tone was gentled. “I would not see at thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly,” she told him.

Aragorn's lips quirked into a sad smile and he reached to touch her once more. This time, his hand pressed against her cheek, his fingers in her tumbling hair. She closed her eyes, startled by his cold fingers and the warmth they inspired in her. 

“Nor would I,” he murmured, his voice barely more than an idea in her head. “Therefore,” he continued and she opened her eyes, finding his gaze grey and intense, “I say to you, lady: Stay! For you have no errand to the South.”

He shook his head gently, and Éowyn saw that with his eyes he said more. She had no place with him; he had no love to give her.

She felt her eyes fill with tears, for once not caring that they were witnessed. “Neither have those others who go with thee,” she reminded him. She glanced toward the booth, glowing yet with the lamp Legolas and Gimli had carried in. “They go only because they would not be parted from thee – because they love thee.” 

Pain showed stark and pale on Aragorn's face. “Éowyn,” he began, but she turned to go, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. He said her name again but she could not answer.


End file.
